


"Cajun Honeysuckle"

by KresleyColefan



Series: Arcana Means Secrets [1]
Category: Arcana Chronicles, Endless Knight, Kresley Cole, Poison Princess - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Apocalypse, Cajun, Coming of Age, F/M, Humor, Language, Magic, POV First Person, Paranormal, Romance, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Spoilers, Supernatural - Freeform, Tarot, bad boy, virgin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-05
Updated: 2014-07-04
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:06:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KresleyColefan/pseuds/KresleyColefan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>~Bad boy Cajun hero and supernatural heroine~<br/>Jack & Evie want each other, but when will they both admit it?<br/>Post-apocalypse angst, romance and action.</p><p>Inspired by The Arcana Chronicles series by Kresley Cole.<br/>This is an imagined scene set in Book #1 - Poison Princess.<br/>Evie and Jack travel on foot through Mississippi after wrecking their car.</p><p>~~<br/>Thank you for taking the time to consider reading my story.<br/>I love Kresley Cole's writing and all<br/>the wonderful characters she creates.</p><p>~~</p><p> <br/>"Last night we'd been forced to stay in a library--one of those fire exit capitals--but at least this one had been locked up. . . . when I found a copy of Robinson Crusoe on the library shelves, I secretly slipped it into my pack to give him later."<br/>~Evangeline "Evie" Greene ~Poison Princess, Chapter 25</p><p> </p><p>"If you touch me like that again, Evangeline . . . in the space of a heartbeat, I will have you off this bike onto the closest horizontal surface. And I woan be picky, no. . . . I been strung tight for days, bébé.”<br/>~ Jackson "Jack" Deveaux ~Poison Princess, Chapter 25</p><p> </p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> REFERENCE  
> A.F.: After Flash  
> FLASH: Apocalyptic solar flare  
> BOUCHER (BOO-shay): World famous Waterboy
> 
>  
> 
> CAJUN FRENCH  
> bébé (bay-bay): baby, sweetheart  
> bec (beck): kiss  
> belle (bell): beautiful  
> chapelet (shah-pleh): rosary  
> cher (share): dear  
> chèvrefeuille (SHEV-ruh-FUHR): honeysuckle  
> coo-yôn (KOO-yahn): fool, idiot  
> de bon cœur (du BON kurr): whole-heartedly  
> de rien (de REE-ann): it's nothing, forget about it  
> doux à moi (doo ah mwah): sweet to me  
> douce (doos): sweet  
> drôle (drawl): weird  
> Evangeline (ee-VAN-jell-EEN)  
> farouche (fah-ROOSH): wild, feral  
> fous (foo): fools, lunatics  
> le Français Cadien (FRAHN-say kaydj-ANN)  
> fille (fee-y): girl  
> gâtée (GAH-tay): spoiled  
> jolie (JZOH-lee): pretty  
> make the bahbin (BAH-ben): to pout  
> matou (MAH-too): tomcat  
> mère (mare): mother  
> mouche à miel (moosh ah MEE-el) honey bee  
> nécessité (ne-SESS-eh-TAY): necessity  
> ouias (hway): yea  
> peut etre (puit ET-ruh): maybe  
> podna (POD-nah): friend  
> peekôn (PEE-cohn): thorn  
> père (pare): dad  
> pommier (POM-eeay) apple tree  
> reveille (REH-vay): wake-up  
> sans doute (sohns dute): without a doubt  
> taureau (tore-OH): bull  
> tête dure (tet durr): hard head  
> toute de suite (toot sweet): immediately

 

**DAY 234 A.F.**

PEARL, MISSISSIPPI ~ _DEEPER STILL_

    I flexed and probed from crown to toes searching for what worked and what didn't. My head ached; I'd likely sprained my wrist and I tasted blood from where I'd bitten my tongue. Fortunately, I hadn't added major injury to the tally.

    For the second time in as many hours I was sprawled casualty-like on a thick gray bed of Mississippi ash. I'd just straightened from tying my boot when a bare-knuckled gust had sucker punched me to the ground. For about a nanosecond, I'd been flying, like someone had jerked me backward on a string. 

    Though I knew it was a losing battle, I used my bandana to clean ash from my sunglasses. The sky was getting darker by the minute. As I squinted up at gathering storm clouds, a Jackson-shaped silhouette leaned into view. 

    "You okay, _bébé?"_

    I wasn't okay. Not even a little. I was frustrated at yet another demonstration of my weakness, my clumsiness, of the way I constantly seemed to prove I was someone who needed help... _useless._ I gave him a jerky nod and after an awkward pause, I sighed and reached for his offered hand.     

    Jack pulled me to my feet with such unexpected force, I was--yet again--airborne. I cut my eyes sideways, ready to go off; but he wasn't smirking. In fact, he seemed to be studiously avoiding eye contact. 

    I decided to let it go.  

    Just before my fall, we'd emerged from a final copse of trees, getting our first glimpse of Pearl, Mississippi.

    Now, standing at a crossroads atop a shallow rise, I pressed the back of my hand against my lips, my heart _breaking_ as I comprehended the scene.

    The Flash hadn't been kind anywhere, but this level of destruction was beyond anything we'd seen so far.

    What was that SAT word?

_Annihilation._

    This town had been annihilated-- _utterly._ _  
_

    It was like news footage following a strong tornado--only worse.

    Without grass or trees, the barren gray landscape stretched as far as the eye could see--a graveyard with no flowers, no visitors--just blackened spikes jutting from the shifting dunes and swirling ash.

    One building broke ranks from the low silhouette of skyline rubble, a black tower alone in the distance.

    Three stories of scorched concrete and steel stood intact--mostly _\--_ though the entire structure tilted ominously to the right. And I had the strangest notion it was . . . . _calling_ me? 

 When I closed my eyes, I heard a siren's song;  my mind's eye saw the canting pillar reach out and _beckon._ Like a charred mecca _,_ she lured me: _enchantress,_ _spellbinder . . ._ _The Leaning Tower of Pearl._

    Jackson's gaze bolted to the darkening sky, then flickered back to me.  When he looked toward the tower, he tilted his head slowly to the right, mirroring its starboard lean. After a final glance my way, he squared his shoulders, eyes flashing with determination.

    With his now familiar command,  _stick to me like a shadow, you,_ he grabbed my hand and pulled me along behind him, shielding me from the strengthening storm.

    Lowering my bandanna, I shouted over the howling wind.

    "What about fire exits? _Bagmen_?" 

    Jackson had often said we'd avoid public buildings, since fire exits attracted Bagmen, the contagious blood-drinkers created by the Flash.

    When he glanced over his shoulder, I nodded toward the dark tower, raising my palm in a _what gives_ motion.

    He adjusted his hold, threading his calloused fingers through mine, yelling, "Trust me, _cher_."

    I smiled at that, giving his hand a little squeeze. I did trust Jackson to keep me safe.

    We'd left my home in Sterling, Louisiana nearly two weeks earlier--the day my mother died.

    I'd vowed to save my despair for the evenings, so I could focus on daytime dangers--and because my tears seemed to  _really_ bother Jackson. 

    It'd been four days since we'd wrecked our car--four days on foot in boiling heat and punishing winds. There'd been random earthquakes--small tremors, mostly. The rumblings were more unsettling than dangerous, like timely reminders of what little control we had in our current situation.

    My Cajun bodyguard had been less moody since our night in the Bagman swamp, but his temper was _still_ a wild horse, bucking for the slightest opportunity to run free.

    Earlier, with my forefinger curled around his belt loop, we'd turned a corner, leaving behind our second Magnolia Street of the day.

    A scorched welcome sign had announced: 

_~Brandon, Mississippi - Home of the Spartans~_ _  
_

    When Jackson'd drawn up short, I'd slammed face first against his broad back.

    He'd turned to me slowly--almost menacingly-- watching in perfect stillness as I'd gingerly pinched the bridge of my battered nose.

    "I'm okay." I'd assured him, offering a quick _thumbs-up_.

    With sudden, angrymovements, he'd snatched off his dust-coated sunglasses, jamming them into his shirt pocket. After popping the bow from his shoulder, he'd tugged down his soot-stained bandanna, revealing a jaw muscle that'd tick-tick-ticked like a bomb.

    I hadn't been able to hide my own irritation when he'd inspected _the bow_ for damage.

 

 

    Brandon Radcliffe had been my high school boyfriend. My wonderful, gorgeous, happy-go-lucky beau.

    And Jackson had _hated_ him.

    That hadn't been too surprising, considering Jackson'd held nearly everyone at my school in contempt. But the fact that Brandon returned the feelings had been unexpected--unprecedented _,_ even.

    Last summer, a new bridge placed Jackson and four other Basin kids in the Sterling school district. On my sixteenth birthday, just one week into my Junior year, the Flash had struck. The destruction had been unfathomable; a sudden, bitter end to the sweet life I'd once known.

    Over the course of an entire day and night; people, buildings, even entire cities had been seared to ash by the rays resulting from a cataclysmic solar flare.

    The few who'd survived the first twenty-four hours had been culled even further by sickness, starvation and . . .  _other people._

    If rumors were to be believed, ninety-nine percent of the world's population was now simply . . . gone _._

    Brandon certainly was. My best friend, Melissa Warren too. Nearly every _one_ and everything I'd ever known had been blown to the winds. And now, my only hope of survival was to put those thoughts away. If I dwelled too long on the harsh facts, on all that'd been lost, I knew I'd surrender to the crazy that'd been trying to claim me since Spring. _  
_

    Jackson and I were on the road to North Carolina, where my grandmother lived before the Flash.  I wanted to believe she was alive-- _needed_ to believe it. But with each passing day, it seemed less and less likely.

   As we'd walked into Brandon _,_ I'd almost commented on the irony of its location, how close it was to Mississippi's state capitol, Jackson _._ Fortunately, sanity had returned, reminding me not to play with explosives.    

Jackson hadn'tso much walked through the town as he had  _charged forward._

    I'd been forced to speed-walk, pumping my arms wildly trying to keep up. When I feared the friction of my pistoning thighs might set my jeans afire _,_ I gave up and broke into a run.

     Five minutes into the jog, and I'd been clutching my side in agony. It felt like I'd been stabbed through with a long sword-- _and where had that thought come from?--_ but admitting I couldn't keep up had _not_ been an option.

     For the next half hour, Jackson hadn't spoken a single word--hadn't acknowledged me whatsoever _._

    Once we'd cleared the city limits, he'd finally slowed, letting out a long sigh--seemingly one of relief.

    Dropping to my knees in the middle of the ashy road--hands trembling--I'd struggled to open my canteen, only vaguely aware of Jackson turning his gaze back toward me.

   It'd been much later in the day, when his look of surprise and concern had registered.

    After a hard won battle with a screw off cap, I'd tilted my head back, savoring the hot, metallic tasting water. Once the lid had been tightly resealed, I'd closed my eyes and simply collapsed to my back, ringed by the halo of ash that erupted around me.

   

     When I'd opened my eyes, Jackson'd been staring down at me-- _again._

     His hand had been outstretched-- _again._

     And-- _again_ \--I couldn't decide on the exact source of my anger.

    First up: speed-walking. Though there hadn't been a crowd of witnesses to the event, _I'd_ known what I looked like doing it, which was reason enough to be pissed.

    High pumping arms and swinging ponytails were meant for tennis shoes, cute athletic gear and verdant tree-lined parks.  _Not:_  blistered feet in ill-fitting boots, grimy clothes and barren roads choked in calf-deep drifts of ash.  

    Next: Jackson's attitude. He'd acted like it was my fault the town'd been named Brandon. Back in school, I'd never understood his animosity toward my boyfriend, but I fully comprehended it wasn't my job--then or now--to suffer because of it.

    Finally: there was the fact I'd been flat on my back-- _AGAIN!  
_

    I hated feeling weak, _hated_ asking for help. And it seemed _every_ situation with Jackson forced me toward those things exactly _._

    While stewing in ash and resentments, I'd worked myself into a righteous fury. Ignoring Jackson's outstretched hand, I'd stood up, beating my jeans like an old horse blanket . . . my anger ratcheting up a few more notches as I lost yet another battle against _the Army of Ash._

    I'd still been making a mental list of grievances, when I became aware of a change in the air, a change in Jackson's movements.

    He'd begun circling me, his gaze watchful . . .  _predatory._ Some dormant sixth sense had roused, urgently whispering-- _danger! danger! danger!_

    Holding still as a statue, I'd watched him with my eyes alone, only losing him in the blind spot directly behind me.

    Every few steps he'd push his jet black hair away back from his face. Otherwise, his hands had hung loose at his sides--ready for action. 

    With eachdeliberatemove forward, his heel had gently met the dirt, followed by a silent roll to the ball of his foot, each step perfectly in line with the last. It'd been a hunter'swalk _._

   With that thought, I'd understood exactly what--or rather _who_ \--had been his intended prey.

    I'd felt his blazing gray gaze locked on me. 

    Just as I'd opened my mouth to warn him to keep his distance-- _lightning fast_ \--he'd moved behind me, his big hands gripping my hips, pulling me tight against him.   

    Leaning in close, his breath'd been hot against my ear, his voice a deep rumble. "Want to  _help, me_ _._ " He'd punctuated the word _"me"_ by wrenching me even closer.

    Then, under the pretense of _ash removal_ , he'd begun smoothing his hands slowly over my hips, my waist and around to my stomach. _  
_

    My teeth were clenched so tight, I'd felt the tick-tick-tick of my own jaw muscle.

    His body had been flush against my back, the heat of him surrounding me.

    When his lips had brushed against my neck, I'd shivered . . .

    And it'd made me angry.

_Only_ angry. _And possibly border crossing into a state of denial._

    I hadn't wanted to press myself against him . . . hadn't imagined spinning around and wrapping my legs around his waist.

    I hadn't been silently begging him to cover my lips with his own . . . and I definitely hadn't balled my hands into fists to hide my tingling, curling thorn claws . . . 

    When one of his arms locked around my waist and the other hand continued _brushing ash_ from my hoodie, I'd become achingly aware of its unmistakable path toward my chest.

    Touching his wrist, I'd interrupted his version of help with my trademarked mash-up of sugar and snide.

    "You're welcome to keep reaching that direction--"

    My tone'd been sweet . . . and razor sharp _._ "-- _if_ you'd like to lose a paw."

    I'd felt him still, heard him exhale a long breath. Lowering his hands, his fists had clenched and unclenched over and over. And he'd seemed . . . _confused?_

    Before he pulled away, I'd heard him murmur something about roses _and_. . .chèvrefeuille? _Honeysuckle._

 

    Back on the road, I'd had time to think things through. That was when I'd recalled Jackson's surprise at my state of near-hyperventilation. He hadn't known I was having trouble keeping up. He'd been too much in his own head. I could identify with that, so I'd decided to cut him some slack.

    With reluctance, I'd admitted it was my pride that'd kept me from simply asking him to slow down.

    Though he could be abrasive and crude and he was the Babe Ruth of mood swings--always aiming for the fences--he could also be thoughtful.

    Sometimes, he might've even been tender.

    _Like now,_ I thought, as we made our way through Pearl.

    He couldn't see my wide-eyed gaze behind my sunglasses--couldn't know how much this town was freaking me out. Yet, whenever I was most distressed, he'd squeeze my hand--just the smallest movement--reassuring me I wasn't alone.

    I had this thing about baby car seats. It seemed like one out of ten scorched vehicles had a tell-tale warped frame in the back.

     Twice today, I'd discovered Jackson's attempts to steer me away as we'd approached the unsettling sight. And once, I thought he'd gone so far as to pick a fight to distract me.

     We'd been walking through the part of Pearl most densely packed with torched cars. I'd walked on the right, Jackson on the left. To my right, I'd seen a stroller half buried in a ditch. 

Out of the clear blue--he'd said,

    "So, _peekôn_ _. ._ want to see you in dat rose bra, _me._  What can ole Jack do to make it happen?"

    He'd been referring to his unwelcome learing down my shirt when I'd worn my cheer uniform in school.

    " _Ole Jack_ can grow a new personality. " I'd shot back.

    _"Done,"_ had been his quick reply. "Now . . . we barter _,_  for true. Want to see you in the red panties too, _yea_. What's the trade for dat favor?"

     My mouth had gaped. I'd been torn between outrage and embarrassment. Then I'd caught him glancing over my shoulder . . . in the direction of the stroller. _  
_

     My heart had softened instantly, and I'd looked at him with-- _to my surprise_ \--true affection. I'd been grateful for my sunglasses . . . grateful he hadn't seen that look.

    Smiling up at him, voice gone soft, I'd said, "I don't know, Jackson. But keep this up and we'll see what we can work out."

    There'd been a hitch in his step before he'd stopped walking all together.  For several beats, he'd just stared at me, lips parted.

     I'd done my best to hide my widening grin.

  

     Pearl was unique in all the places we'd traveled. There was no market square or central hub, no clear heart-of-the-city.

    When we walked through what might've been downtown, I thought of Mr. Broussard, my former History teacher. He'd said Jackson, Mississippi was known as _Chimneyville_ after the Civil War. 

    General Sherman and his men had wreaked a fiery havoc there, just as they had on much of the Deep South. Businesses and stately antebellum homes had been reduced to crumbling brick fireplaces rising from piles of smaller rubble.

    Pearl could've been called _Stairville_. 

    The business district--at least, I guessed it was the business district--was a burnt-out mess of crumbling interior staircases. They rose up to nothing, stairs to nowhere.

    It was creepy _._

    When I'd said as much to Jackson, he'd seemed irritated-- _shocker!_

    " _Stairs_ ain't _creepy._ Dey woan rip your throat out, _non._ Worry about Bagmen, _you."_

    He must've known he'd hurt my feelings, because a short while later, he'd motioned to his left with the shotgun.

    "Tings like dat make me . . . _unsettled."_

    I'd followed his gaze toward a pile of rubble that'd clearly been a church.

    Then he'd added, "I figure you could call it . . . "

After a pause, he'd quietly finished his sentence. _". . ._ you could call it _. . . creepy."_

Was that Jackson's way of apologizing?

    I'd smiled up at him, letting him know he'd been forgiven.

    He'd scowled down at me.

    I'd pretended not to notice and turned away.

    After that, we'd walked awhile in silence.      

Only two buildings in Pearl had survived the Flash: a warehouse on the outskirts of town and the black tower.

   --And I'd smelled the former before I'd seen it.

    By the time I'd been able to read the sign announcing the place as Frank Lyman's Seafood Distributors, my stomach'd been roiling.

The stench had been nuclear _grade_ \--impressive even by A.F. standards.

    A fleet of once refrigerated trucks had sat blackened and warped--their contents covered in ash, baking in the boiling heat.

    Even Jackson, who'd previously seemed immune to all odors great and small, had turned a very un-jolly shade of green.

    From behind his bandanna, I'd heard a muffled, "Bet even Bagmen woan go near dat place."

    I'd briefly panicked, thinking that meant _we_  would _"_ go near dat place _";_ but he'd grabbed my elbow, squiring me in a direction that'd skirted the building by half a mile, at least.

     Clutching my bandanna against my mouth. I'd fished my scented necklace from my pocket, desperately trying not to be sick.  Aside from the discomfort and humiliation of throwing up with an audience, I hadn't wanted to display yet another example of my weakness.

     Once we'd out-distanced the worst of the odor, I'd gotten my nausea under control, all the while obsessing over Jackson's perception of my uselessness.

     Then, I'd remembered a random fact from school. It was just a silly statistic, but I'd thought it might somehow make me seem less ridiculous.

     Looking up at him, I'd pulled down my bandanna.

    "Did you know girls smell thirty percent better than boys?"

    Jackson'd glanced at me sideways. With a rye smile, he'd said,

    "If you ask me, _cher . . ._ filles smell a hundred percent better, _for true_."

    "No." I'd exhaled. "I mean . . .females have more--" I'd struggled to recall the term.   "--smell receptors, or whatever."

    His look'd been skeptical.

    "An' who told you dat, _Evangeline."_ Condescension had drip-drip-dripped off his tone.

    I hadn't wanted to share the _exact_ source of this information. _God, why had I even brought it up?_

    My best friend, Mel, had made a name for herself during our second week at Sterling High when she'd read her contrast and comparison essay aloud in Freshman Lit and Grammar. _The title?_

Girls are The Shit: Guys Suck Ass

     Mrs. Warren had gotten a phone call. Mr. Warren had made an obscenely large donation to the English department. _And Mel?_

    She'd gotten an _"A"_ and a _politely_ worded offer of exemption from all future oral presentations.

     I cleared my throat. 

    "I learned it in school. It had something to do with animals and mating instincts . . ."

    I'd paused, distracted by a rock in my path, booting it into the distance with an unexpected amount of hostility. 

    Darting a glance at Jackson, he'd watched as it bounced across the ash like a pebble skipping water.

    He'd turned to me--brows raised--seeming surprised and . . .   _impressed?_

    His expression had then turned mischievous.

    With a wicked glint, he'd teased, " _So,_ tell me more about deze . . .   _mating instincts."_

    My cheeks'd flushed crimson as I'd sputtered in a rush. "I d-don't remember the details."

    Jackson had given me a measured look, then began--what I'd dubbed-- _stubbling._

    Whenever he went into puzzle solving mode, he'd press his chin into the vee between his thumb and forefinger. With brows drawn and a look of intense concentration; he'd stroke along his five o'clock shadow, resembling the _"before"_ actor in a razor commercial.

    At that moment, he'd been stubbling intensely. 

    Seeming to come to some conclusion, he'd lowered his hand. _"Heh."_

    "What's _heh_?"

    He'd shrugged. "Surprised, _me._ Figured it the other way around."

    For some reason, I'd gotten defensive. 

    "What? The smell thing? _Why?_ Because boys are so much _better_ than girls . . . more skilled in everything? Is that it?"

    Jackson'd drawn his head back, seeming surprised by my outburst. "I never said dat, _non_. Just tink a man needs dat sense more, to provide for his woman . . . his kin. A man needs the better nose to hunt game . . . to defend _. . .  to protect_ _._ "

    Seeming to regret his impassioned words, he'd switched to _player_ mode, crowding my personal space, even throwing in obligatory eyebrow waggle and all.

     "If a certain jolie fille wants to prove her _skills,_ she can practice on me anytime, _for true_."

    If his words were meant to flirt, he'd missed the mark, _for true._  If he'd been trying to piss me off, he'd succeeded . . .  _sans doute. Without a doubt._

    I'd squared my shoulders to face him.

    " _Maybe_ girl animals have better noses so the boy animals have a better shot at hooking up . . . . "

    I'd crossed my arms. ". . . so males can lure females closer with their pheromones, or whatever. It's the pea- _cocks_ that flash the feathers, _right_?"

     Jackson's bark of laughter had burst out, surprising us both. Then his eyes'd snapped back to me, to see if I'd been joking or something.

    After taking in my pursed lips and narrowed eyes, he'd thrown back his head and _really_ laughed.

    Shaking his head back and forth, he'd chuckled, "Evangeline and her dirty mouth _._ All dis talk about _mating_ and _cocks_ is shocking, _for true."_

    I'd squeezed my hands into tight fists, feeling my nails score crescent moons into my palms. 

   _"Ahh, peekôn_ . . . " he'd teased. _"_ Doan make the bahbin." Don't pout.

    He'd curled a forefinger, tapping a knuckle under my chin, poking out his bottom lip for emphasis.

    Making a sound of frustration, I'd marched away in anger.

     _Jackson_ \--still chuckling.

     _Me_ \--still fuming.

     Catching up to me, his expression amused, he'd coaxed, "Doan be mad, _Evangeline."_

     I'd stopped walking abruptly, waiting to see if he'd shovel his way out or dig the hole deeper.

     He'd reached out, tucking loose hair behind my ear before stepping directly in front of me, locking his gaze with mine. He'd removed his sunglasses, then slowly removed mine, before tucking both into his shirt pocket.

     Placing the rough pad of a forefinger under my chin, he'd tilted my face upward. Eyes never once leaving mine, he'd pressed a hot palm against my lower back, pulling me closer, rumbling,  "Want you no matter how you smell, _me_. . . even _when_ you smell like a rose."

We'd stood motionless for what seemed an eternity. I hadn't known if I'd been complimented, insulted or . . . . my thoughts had been in complete chaos. Finally, I determined Jackson'd likely been right; I just didn't understand boys _at all._

    Still staring and without a word, I'd reached into his pocket for my sunglasses, then spun on my heel and walked away.

 

By the time we reached the tower, it was nearly dark. The eerie green tint back-lighting the clouds made me shiver.

    A charred granite slab resting on the tower's lawn announced in slim, block letters:

_~Dottie M. Gale Memorial Library~_

    A smaller line of text added simply: ~ _Closed on Sundays~_

    Jackson dropped to the pavement, unzipping his pack. His thoughtfulness as we'd walked through town had done much to ease my earlier anger and I smiled as I watched him.

  _So confident. So capable. So_ _handsome . . . Stop it, Evie. Just . . . STOP! Best not to complicate things . . ._

    The sound of metal whipping against metal drew my attention to the three charred flagpoles standing guard near the building's entrance. Their steel cords clanged a frenzied rhythm in the strengthening storm.

_Greeting or warning?_

    The question made no sense; but then, most of my recent thinking had little to do with logic.    

    I glanced toward the library. From a distance, I'd thought it'd been surrounded by torched telephone poles. I swallowed thickly, realizing these were the skeletons of once massive oak trees.

    With a pang, I thought of Haven, my former home in Louisiana. The home where my mother had drawn her last breath mere hours before a sadistic army descended. The home I'd burned to the ground rather than see it defiled. The _haven_ that'd became my mother's funeral pyre.

    I swayed as a gray wave of sadness crashed along the shore of my soul.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A rumbled shout pulled me from my thoughts.

    "Checkin' doors. Stay close, you." Nodding like a deranged Bobble-head, I raised my bandanna and hurried to stay right behind him.

    As Jackson rounded the library's corner, I stared at his broad back. And as I'd done so many times today, I smiled at the new item he carried.

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Two

Alongside his trusty cross-bow and bug out bag, _my_ bag was slung over Jackson's shoulder as well. And I couldn't seem to school my goofy grin.

    We'd spent last night on the bench seats of a poppy red vintage car--a '63 Mercury Comet, he'd informed me.

    It'd been one of those rare moments, when I'd gotten a glimpse of the eighteen year old boy housing his seemingly older, weathered soul.

    "I thought you were a biker boy," I'd teased.

    He'd given me a rueful grin, "I got a . . . " His smile'd slipped. "I had a podna . . . his père had one, except his was black-on-black. Nello's ole man loved dat ride 'bout as much as his hounds."

    Reaching for any appropriate response, I’d asked, "So, your friend's father really loved his dogs?"

    Jackson'd rolled his eyes, muttering a sardonic, " _Ouias_ ,"--yea--as if I'd asked the lamest question of the century. After that he'd gone quiet, lost in his own thoughts.

    Staring absently of the dusty red car, he'd rubbed his hand over a shiny chrome side mirror before turning abruptly.

    Leveling his gaze on me, one side of his lips'd curled into a wicked half-grin.

    "And _peekôn_ . . . _boy_ doan describe no part of Jack Deveaux, non."

    I'd sighed, shaking my head, calling him a _matou_. Tomcat.

    Of course, there'd been no fuel in the Comet, but the locks and windows had all worked, the red leather seats had been in mint condition and one of the little cardboard trees in the glovebox'd made everything smell like piña coladas. I'd stashed the extra air fresheners in my backpack, in case they might come in handy later.

    Just after dusk, Jackson'd opened the driver's door for me, tossing my pack inside. His tone was gruff.

    "In you go, bebe."

    Adding with a sweeping gesture, "Your chariot awaits."

    Whenever Jackson thought he wasn't being a good enough provider, he got angry. I tried not to take his moods personally; but so far, my success rate was precisely none-point-none.

    He'd been growly for hours: unhappy with our shelter, pissed about our lack of food and flat-out unapproachable over our rapidly dwindling water supply. With only half a canteen each, it'd been our most meager reserve so far.

    To me, the car seemed as safe as anywhere else we'd slept. When we'd discovered it covered inside the garage of a split-level home, I'd been excited. And though the dead battery and empty gas tank'd been expected, it was still a disappointment.

    Jackson had wanted to keep walking--to find better shelter and maybe a new water supply too. But without warning, a fierce storm had descended--a real howler. Directly on its heels, the sun'd dropped like a rock and--just like that--our overnight accommodations had been decided.

    Our entire food supply consisted of two moon pies Jackson'd found at the bottom of a tool box in the Comet's garage. Banana flavored and three years out-of-date, they were both smashed flatter than pancakes.

     I couldn't help but think of the round swirly peppermints one of my neighbors gave out at Halloween instead of _good_ candy.

    Eating those mints always signified the last of my bag, the bottom of the barrel, the end of my Samhain bounty. -- _God, what I wouldn't give for a peppermint now!_

    As I'd held up one of the moon-pies, I wondered about the end. Were we getting close? Or would things somehow turn around and get better? Or maybe it'd be worse than I'd ever let myself imagine. 

    In my first few days with Jackson, I'd thought all the food in the world fell into one of three categories.

    One: It'd been _appropriated_ and was currently being protected and rationed.

    Two: It hadn't been discovered yet . . . _or caught_. Rats and reptiles were rare delicacies on the A.F. menu. 

    Three: The food item was so foul no one would eat it and less desperate survivors had consciously left it behind.

    In the past couple of days--as I'd gotten hungrier--I'd amended my categories, throwing out the third entirely. Stuff that'd once earned a "hell no", like cat food was now a resigned "why the hell not".

    With a growing sense of doom, I realized the day would come-- _and maybe soon--_ when all the food would be gone. What would people do then? What would _we_ do then?

    With those thoughts forefront in my mind, I'd managed a _mostly_ sincere prayer of thanks for the mangled snack package in my hand.

    It was then, I'd happened a glance at Jackson. After taking one bite, he'd looked at the remainder with such intense disgust, it'd almost been funny . . . _almost._

     After swallowing it down--with effort--he'd given the offensive snack cake another incredulous glare, then held it out to me, proclaiming, "All yours, _peekôn_. Ain't worth wasting the water for me to get it down, _non_."

I'd raised a palm in protest. "Well, I'm not wasting water either!" I'd hoped my tone held a believable amount of indignation. I'd already tasted my moon pie and knew starvation might've been the lesser of the two evils.

     "Just take it, Evie. An' doan worry 'bout the water. I'll find more."

     With that, he'd leaned against the car, crossing his arms over his chest.

     Jerking his chin toward a pile of rubble just outside the open garage door, he'd added, "Just as soon eat shingles, me." 

    It'd been full dark for hours and Jackson _still_ hadn't returned.  The interior wall of the garage had collapsed under the charred rubble of the house above, leaving the garage door as the only opening. My anxiety had grown when I realized this was the only way something could get in, but it was also our only path out. Jackson'd been right to be unhappy about this set-up.

    After an exhausting effort to keep the fears at bay, I'd finally given myself up to worry and the voices that assailed my mind whenever he was away.

    It was as if they'd saved up all their anger for the moment they got me alone. A volcano of hate erupted inside my mind.

    In Jackson's absence, the only things that offered even a small amount of comfort were my six treasures. These were my special trinkets--my keepsakes--the ones I kept as close as possible.

    I'd sourced a velvet roll pouch to keep them protected. Each night, I'd pull the tie and spread the material out flat, unfurling the fabric of my heart.

    I placed my treasures in a perfect line--always within reach--so I could see them as I fell asleep and stroke each one in turn. There was something almost ritualistic about it. I had no idea why this made me feel better, just knew that it did.

    After I'd finished inventory on our meager supplies, I organized my own bag and carefully lined up my treasures on the floorboard. Then it was time to set upon the tangled bird's nest I called my hair.

     I'd just begun wrestling with a particularly wicked tangle , when three quick raps on the trunk made me jump. After an initial yelp, I quickly recovered and stretched into the back seat to pop the door lock for Jackson.

    Settling back on my heels, I'd returned to the front lines of _The Tangle War,_ waging my battle quietly and methodically, having much more interest in watching the Cajun. How had he gotten in? The garage door was still shut tight. I'd let him get settled before peppering him with questions. 

    After he'd stowed the gun and crossbow on the ledge beneath the rear window, he shoved his pack on the seat against the door. Folding his big body inside, he closed and locked the door behind him. Tunneling fingers through his jet-black hair, he'd reached into his pack for my canteen.

    "Water's warm, but it woan make you dead."

     My heart leapt. I could barely contain my excitement. Apparently, boiled water was the A.F. equivalent of a diamond from Tiffany's before the Flash.  

     The darkness hid my expression and for that, I'd been grateful. Jackson didn't need to see my _moon-eyed_ look or the goosebumps that'd raced over my skin when our fingers touched.

    And he certainly didn't need to see my reaction when I closed my eyes and felt the warm, clean water slide down my parched throat. It'd been utter bliss. In that moment Jackson was the hero of my entire world. 

    As I opened my eyes, I could just make out his expression in the moonlight. What little illumination there was, came in directly behind me, so I was likely just a shadow to him . . . and once again, I'd been grateful.

    He'd seemed pleased by my obvious enjoyment of the water. And--for the moment--freed from his usual restless nature.

   "Where'd you find water? How'd you boil it? And what took so long anyway? I was getting worried."

   "Doan you worry, _ange._ I told you, _nothin'_ can get the drop on me. An' I got ways of findin' water, me."

    Rising on my knees, I'd folded my arms atop the seat. Tilting my head to the side, I'd rested my cheek on the crook of my arm . . . to better stare at Jackson.

    I'd washed my face and brushed my teeth before getting in the car and I knew Jackson'd done the same. He was extremely fastidious--a fact I'd found both surprising and at that particular moment, _especially_  delightful.

    His eyes had glowed like gray embers in the moonlight as I'd imagined what it would be like to kiss him.

    When I'd stared at his lips, they parted slightly, making my breath hitch. He'd leaned back, spreading his arms over the entire width of the back seat, hands gripping the leather on opposite sides.

    I'd never made out with a boy in the back seat of a car . . . or the front seat for that matter. I'd never gone _parking._

    As soon as the thought emerged, I could think of nothing else.

    Heated images filled my mind: leaping over the seat, pressing myself against him . . . tasting his lips, his tongue . . . his rough hands against my bare flesh. I wanted to touch him _everywhere_ . . . wanted him to touch _me_ everywhere . . . wanted to taste his skin, feel his body move beneath my lips, my nails, my _teeth_ . . . 

    I'd begun rocking slowly against the seat, clenching and unclenching my folded arms in the same rhythm I swayed.

    "Sure you don't want the front seat?" I'd practically purred.

    Jackson'd sat perfectly rigid, his knees stretched wide. I noticed--with amazement--how they'd nearly touched the doors on either side. _God, had he always been this . . . big?_

    My eyes roamed all over him; I'd marveled at the way he took up the entire back seat. His chest was wider too, seeming to expand bigger and bigger with each of his shallow breaths.

    With slow, even movements, he'd begun scrubbing his palms, back and forth, up and down the length of his jeans clad thighs.

    Down and then back. And again . . . down and back . . . up and down . . . slow, measured strokes . . .

   Suddenly, he'd stilled, gripping his knees until the skin of his knuckles stretched white. After a heavy silence, he'd cleared his throat.

_"Non, cher._ _Ole Jack_ can keep a better watch bag here."

    I'd been momentarily confused, forgetting I'd asked a question. Then I'd muttered a highly intelligent, "Whah?"

    He'd leaned forward then, moonlight catching his eyes, making them seem to glow even brighter.

   In a low tone, he'd rasped, _"Climb bag here peekôn . . . ."_

   He'd started rubbing his thighs again.

   My muscles'd been coiled, _ready to spring_. I'd barely checked the urge to vault over the seat.

    Reaching out, he'd grazed a thumb across my bottom lip, his voice sounding almost strangled. ". . . so I can _watch you_ even better."

   My heart'd been racing and I'd spun around quickly, knowing from experience he said things like that just to embarrass me. 

_Still,_ he'd seemed as affected as I was . . . and the way he'd said _watch you_  shot heat through my veins like lightning. The feeling was so intense it'd almost been frightening . . . _almost._

    I hadn't fallen asleep for a long, _long_ time.  _Hell,_ it'd been a long time before I'd even been able to  _breath_ normally.

    Curling on my side, using my pack as a pillow, I'd stroked each item in my line of trinkets, all the while wondering if Jackson would say anything else--if he'd _do_ anything else.

    When he'd stayed quiet, I hadn't known if I was relieved . . . _or disappointed._

_No._  That wasn't true. When it came to Jackson's flirting and retreating, disappointment had been mixed in with relief for a while. That night had been the first time I'd acknowledged exactly how much the disappointment outweighed the relief.

    Maybe I'd dreamed it, but during the night, I thought I'd felt him stroking my hair.

    Whispering close against my ear-- _barely audible_ \--I'd felt his words as much as I'd heard them.

    "Goan to find you a better place tomorrow night, _ma belle . . ._   _I swear it."_  

    And on that night, at least one girl on planet Earth had slept with a smile.

  

    We'd awakened to blue skies and the lingering scent of piña coladas, neither of us mentioning the night before.

    As we'd readied for the day, I'd noticed the car's custom license plate-- _TALCHASR_.

    When I asked Jackson what it'd meant, he'd said, " _Doan be coy_ , Evangeline."

   "No, _really_ \--I've never been good at figuring out codes, " . . . _or directions, or cooking, or how to shoot a gun, or taking care of my mother, or saving my friends and family from the Flash . . ._

    I'd tilted my face to the ceiling, leveling the pools of gathering tears, _willing_ them not to spill.

    When I'd been sure the threat'd passed, I'd turned to Jackson. "You won't tell me? Or maybe you don't know either?"

    With a long-suffering sigh, he'd monotoned, "Tail chaser,  _peekôn_ . _Tail chaser_."

    I'd blinked in confusion. "Like a dog or something?"

    His expression'd wavered between irritated and amused.

    He'd sighed again. " _Ouais._ " _Yea. " . ._  .  _like a dog_."

    With that, he'd scooped up  _my_ pack and slung it over his shoulder.

    I'd immediately taken offense.

    " _What?_ I can't carry my own bag now? Is that it?" I'd rushed to catch up. "Am I _that_ useless?"

    He hadn't deigned to respond, just kept right on walking.

    My feelings'd been hurt-- _at first_ \--but as the day wore on, my shoulders hadn't ached and my feet weren’t quite as raw with blisters. I'd decided to be grateful, even if Jackson carried my bag only because he'd found me lacking. Then, I'd noticed things that'd made me wonder.

    Whenever we stopped, he'd glance my way as he took off my pack, always seeming especially pleased. He'd had that same look of satisfaction each time we'd packed to leave.

    At one stop, I’d offered to take it back, assuring him I could pull my own weight. He'd looked offended, gripping it possessively, as if I'd tried to steal his new favorite toy.

    "Save your strength, _fille_ ," he'd said. "Never know what's around dat next corner."

     Throughout the day, I'd recalled Jackson's words from the night of my birthday party.

_“Where I come from, a man carries a woman’s things because it’s polite--and to let other beaux know she’s taken.”_

_Was_ Jackson being _polite?_

    I shook my head, amused. _Polite_ wasn’t the first word that came to mind when I thought of the Cajun.

 

    We'd just rounded the library's first corner when today's wind revealed his full personality--and he was definitely _not polite._ A wall of churning ash pushed and shoved, devouring everything in its path. Visibility was less than two feet in every direction. One minute Jackson was there and then he just . . . . _wasn't._

     My brain said he was close, but a fist of panic gripped me so tight, I forgot how to breathe.

    I was alone . . . _vulnerable._ As if on cue, the wind attacked, tossing me to ground like a rag doll.

_Where are you, Jackson?_

    I was locked in a vicious cycle--

_Stand, fall, repeat . . . Stand, fall, repeat . . ._

    Battered, _disoriented_. . . I needed something to hold onto. _Jackson, I need you!_

    Frantic now, I jerked my bandanna down. Dirt and sand swarmed, stinging my face and hands. I whirled in a circle, shouting his name again and again.

    A bully of a gust struck me like a blow; my arms spinning like a windmill as I fell . . . _and fell._

    There was a harrowing crack-- _Oh, God, PAIN!--_ as my shoulder connected with a concrete curb. I lay there, frozen in place. Afraid to move. Afraid to breath.

    Another sharp gust rolled me over and over until I finally managed to latch onto a metal pole. _  
_

    With my good arm hooked around what might've been a parking meter, I gritted my teeth against unimaginable pain.

    The tornado movie I'd once seen with Mel-- _the one I'd worked so hard to forget_ \--whirled into the forefront of my mind.

    That film had marked the beginning of my twister phobia and my fear of all things _bovine._

 

A loose memory arose from my previous summer-of-hell in a mental health clinic for teens:

_~Two docs chatted in a hallway outside my room._

_One was excitedly telling the other, "Lilapso-Bovinophobia!--a fully integrated single phobia of tornadoes and cows!_

_One fear triggers the other so the patient experiences **both** fears simultaneously. _ _This could be a first. I'm writing it up!"_

_The other doc sounded bitter, muttering, "Congratulations. I'm sure you'll get published."_

 

_Bovinophobia_ was the fear of cattle and all domestic ungulates.

    I knew this because I'd looked it up when Mel--for my fifteenth birthday--gave me a Medic-Alert bracelet with the word stamped on the back.

    I had not been amused.

Ungulate _\--I'd had to look that one up too--_ meant a domesticated clovenanimal. I thought of Ogen from my dream of Death _._

    Did Bovinophobia include the fear of El Diablo?

    Maybe I'd been rash in rejecting Mel's gift?

_\--Get in line, Ogen_. I thought. Between tornadoes, cows, cannibals, slavers and Bagmen--my _Terror Card_ was full.

 

_Back to the subject at hand . . ._

    That tornado flick was also the start of another one of Mel's themed phases of violence.

    Whenever she'd seen  _anything_ cattle related, she'd shriek, _"Punch-Cow!"_   Then, never bothering to disguise her glee, commence frogging the hell out of my arm. Even hamburger day in the lunch room had been a painful experience.

    I'd briefly imagined the new game would be an improvement over the previous version, _Punch-Roadkill!_

_Not so._

    The psychological impact of _Punch-Cow!_ was deep; and apparently . . . on-going.

    And this wasn't even addressing the physical trauma. Mel'd packed a punch like . . . recoil from a shotgun blast! I remembered the way her hazel eyes'd sparkled when she'd delightedly dubbed my end-of-the-year dance recital _Black and Blue with a Tutu._ I'd only been half-joking when I'd suggested she register her middle knuckles as lethal weapons.

     Now, I squeezed the pole tighter, picturing myself snatched into the air-- _spinning . . . spinning . . . spinning_ into a mid-air collision with one of those vacant-eyed, multi-stomached, bovinific monsters.

    Cold sweat trickled down my spine. Maybe I could lash my belt around the parking meter? _Shit! No belt._

_\--Don't think of the cows, Evie . . . not the cows . . . never the cows . . ._

    My mental health hiccup succeeded in distracting from the immediate terror of the storm. I looked to the sky.  _Thank you, Melissa Warren!_

    I hit the reset button on my courage-- _I will not die thinking of cattle!--_ and made an _okay_ sign with my thumb and forefinger.

    Mel's _not-so-patient_ words jabbed across my mind. " _Part your lips_ . . . _Curl your tongue_ . . . _Behind your teeth_ . . . . _God_ , that sounded _raunchy!"_

    She'd ended the whistling lesson saying, " _Shit_ , Green, even a monkey could do this. I'm  _so_ embarrassed for you right now."

 

_Nothing to lose here . . ._

    I fumbled through my first attempts, sputtering out dirt and ash. _Then . . . ._ **SUCCESS!**

    I broadcast a sound so shrill it hurt my own ears.

 

    Jackson was suddenly there, bow drawn, head whipping in every direction for the threat. He grabbed my injured arm, shouting, "You hurt?"

    White-hot pain sliced through my shoulder as I slapped an ineffective frenzy at his vice-like grip.

    " _Damn it, fille!"_ Jackson roared. _"Talk to me!"_

    I thrashed my head frantically, sealing my lips tight against the swirling dirt and ash.

    When he dragged me to my feet, I clutched my injured shoulder, shrieking so loud, he briefly let go.

    Before I landed back on my ass, Jackson’s strong hands circled my waist, pulling me back to standing.

    The wind blew so strong. My front was immediately plastered against Jackson's solid chest. We were _amassofdisagreeinglimbs_ struggling to move forward.

    After fighting through several tangled, frustrating moments, he stilled, seeming to make a decision.

    Slinging the bow across his back, he looped my arms around his neck.

    My shoulder sang with pain; but still, I held on.

    I wasn't sure what _he_ had planned, but _I_ planned to move away from the inner band of this funnel cloud _toute de suite!"_  Immediately!

_\--I don't play with tornadoes I didn't create._

    I had no idea where the thought'd come from or what it meant. And currently, no time to find out!

    One quick hop and I'd twined myself around Jackson like a strangler vine.

    If he was surprised, he didn't show it.

    Banding one arm around my back and the other beneath my ass, he leaned into the wind.

    I buried my hooded face against his chest and slowly . . . . _so_ slowly, we made our way to the front of the building.

  

 

 


	3. Three

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once we were back at the flagpoles, it was as if someone sounded a quittin' time whistle. _Yabba-Dabba-Doooooo!_

    The wind was all gentleman now, slipping into a comfortable breeze for dinner.

    I shook my head at the timing.

    The storms' moods changed almost as quickly as Jackson's.

    "I-I think you can put me down now."

    Unwrapping my legs from his waist, I slid down Jackson's front an inch at a time.

    " _Um . . ._ Thank you for carrying me?" _Awkward!_

    Jackson was holding himself impossibly still.

    " _Bébé_ . . ." His voice was rough, trailing off . . .

    He cleared his throat.

    " _You_. . ." He swallowed audibly, rubbing the back of his neck.

    I wished I knew what he was thinking. _Take off the sunglasses, Jackson. Let me see your eyes._

    After a hesitation, and in a carefully neutral tone, he said, " _De rien." It's nothing._

    It was then I noticed the shotgun in his hand. I must've dropped it when I fell.

_God, Evie. How useless can you be_?

    I'd had one thing to carry. _One!_ Jackson'd had _both_ our packs _and_ his bow. _Plus_ he'd ended up carrying _me_ and the gun too!

    I went awash in guilt, _embarrassment_.

    Grief for my mother, fear in the storm, thoughts of Mel, the hard evidence of my uselessness--everything seemed to converge.

_Don't you cry, Evie! Don't you dare cry!_

    My rebellious eyes welled with tears.

    Casting me a wary glance, Jackson handed me his sunglasses.

    Had he noticed the tremor in my shoulders? My shaky breaths? I decided to leave my shades on.

    My bag was still slung over his shoulder, so I walked behind him, zipping his Ray-Bans into a side pouch.

    Early on, he'd made it clear _his_ pack was off limits. One night I'd grabbed both our bags, thinking I'd organize our supplies. He'd suddenly appeared, jerking his bag from my hands.

   When I told him I'd only wanted to help, he'd grated, "Doan _need_ your help, me. Non, _doan want it."_

    He'd stormed away, stabbing a finger at his pack, biting out, " _Mine_." Then he'd waved a hand toward my bag. "Yours. _Compris?"_

    Through gritted teeth, I'd said, "Understood," muttering, "I wouldn't go near your bag if it was on fire."

    Now, Jackson pocketed his black bandanna and tipped the seemingly bottomless flask. Swiping a forearm across his lips, he said, " _Christ_ , Evie. What happened bag dare?"

    I stared at my battered boots. "I . . . I couldn't see you and the storm was getting worse." I'd made a similar statement once before and he'd gotten even angrier, barking, _"I kept you in sight."_

    Now, he didn't say a word, just stood there in silence.

    When he reached for me, threading our fingers once more--my surly-sweet protector--I let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding.

    "Come on, _you_. We'll try again, _yea_?"

    With that, we circled the library hand in hand, this time, without incident.

    When we passed the row of parking meters, I'd remembered my shoulder. Rolling the socket, I'd shrugged it up and down, feeling no pain--not even a twinge.

Exactly how fast did I heal?I remembered thinking I'd broken something, remembered blinding pain just from the movement of _breathing_.

    The ability to rapidly mend my own bones was a good thing. _Right?_   So why did I feel so unsettled? I needed to get to my Gran, needed to find out who _or what_ I was, and more importantly . . .  _how to fix it._

     "What's the matter, _you?_ You hurt your arm?"

Jackson the Ever Observant.

    "You cried out when I pulled you up."

    "I'm fine. Like I said, I freaked out when I couldn't see you . . . and that was the meanest wind _ever_."

     His brows drew together, " _C'est vrai._ " _That's true._ His expression said he'd just entered deduction mode.

_Jackson and his puzzles . . . ._

  

    Now that the ash had settled, my gaze followed the path to the library's entrance.

    The building was modern and surprisingly large for such a small town. Sharp angles and shattered windows dominated the upper floors.

    I thought of the Warren Library on Sterling's campus. The name on the marker here probably meant some rich family had gifted it to the town--like a tribute or something.

     From beyond a small portico, a pair of shockingly bright orange doors attracted like a beacon. A thick chain'd been weaved through the metal push bars into an infinity shape with a massive padlock hanging from the center.

    The architectural lines directed the eye to the face of the building where a towering wall of stained glass once greeted visitors. Now, only broken fragments remained.

    Sunset colored shards of fiery red, amber and violet jutted from a thick black web of frames. I squinted to study it closer, noting shimmering slivers of emerald and aquamarine. As the setting sun met the ruined glass, the jagged teeth sparkled like a glittering sea of jewels.

    "It's still beautiful." I sighed, tilting my head in appraisal. "I can't tell what it was, though. Can you?"

    No reply.

    When I peeked over at Jackson, he wasn't looking at the glass; He was staring at me.

    Feeling foolish for noticing something so . . . useless, I raised my chin, bracing myself for more harsh words.

    If I had a can of ravioli for every time Jackson'd called me, " _coo-yôn_ ", " _good-for-nothing_ ", " _just a useless little doll"_. . .

    He turned his gaze back to the glass.

    I was surprised when he began tracing small circles against my hand. The motion of his callused thumb--'round and around--was soothing.

    His voice was a stroking rasp. "Bet it was a _belle fille."_ A beautiful girl.

    My heart leapt at his words.

    With his eyes fixed firmly ahead, he gave a slow nod.

    " _Ouias." Yea._ "It _is_ still beautiful."

    As I stared into the shattered panes, something welled within me, something I couldn't explain. I squeezed Jackson's hand tighter.

    We stood that way for long moments, our hands joined, the sun at our backs, shadows stretching long on the path before us.

_Me:_ reveling in this kinder, gentler Jackson.

_Jackson:_ reveling in . . . well-- _whatever Jackson reveled in_ \--whiskey, I supposed.

    With a pang, I realized this was the first time in ten days I'd forgotten about my mother, if only briefly. The first time I hadn't thought my chest would collapse from the weight of loss. The knowledge returned in such a rush I barely choked back a sob, fisting the fabric of my hoodie over my heart.

    Jackson jerked his hand from mine, replacing it with the gun. The Cajun did not like tears whatsoever. If Jackson was Superman, then my tear ducts produced Kryptonite. Whenever he caught me crying, he'd say, " _Christ_ , girl--you got to be stronger than this," or " _Damn it,_ Evie; Suck it up!"

    On the whole, I thought I'd been handling things pretty well. My mother was gone. Haven was gone. Mel, my _wing-man_ , my _sister-from-another-mister_ , was lost to me. All my friends, all their families . . . I thought of my horse, Allegra. Had she somehow escaped the Army of the Southeast? I liked the idea of it, but I knew it was likely just a fool's dream.

    Why couldn't Jackson understand I was doing my best?

    More than a dozen voices taunted me. One of them belonged to a boy named Death. His threats to kill me seemed more _personal_ than the others, like he had some kind of vendetta. Matthew's visions felt like a cane-crusher inside my skull.

    Then, there was the added news that I _may or may not be human._

    Jackson acted as if I manufactured each individual tear as a personal insult, like I cried just to make _him_ feel bad.

    Now his tone was impatient. "Make yourself useful, _you_. Watch my six."

    He prowled toward the orange doors.

    I sighed.

    So much for _kinder, gentler_ . . . .

                                                                   

 

 

 

 

There was a pop like gunfire.

    I whirled toward the library’s entrance, surprised to see Jackson packing away the bolt cutters, already loosing the chains.

    When he noticed I hadn't followed, he growled, "Move your ass, _bébé._ "

    By the time I reached the entrance, he was doing the hand motion thing movie soldiers do before bursting through a doorway to save the President or whatever.

    I knew this wasn't for my benefit, likely just habit from his time in the Louisiana militia.

    When he'd first combined several of the more cryptic movements, I hadn't been able to hold back a snort. It'd reminded me too much of one of Sterling's stone-faced assistant football coaches rapidly calling plays. That'd reminded me of Brand and the football movies I'd watched with him and Mel.

    Jackson and I'd been about to storm a daycare center. His expression'd been so fierce--the entire scene beyond bizarre. On a whim, I'd pumped my fist in the air, shouting one of Mel's favorite _Waterboy_ quotes, " _Let's kick some names and take some ass."_

    He'd drawn his brows, first in anger-- _because of my shouting?--_ then in confusion.

    After a pause, he'd inhaled a deep breath, looking to the sky for patience.

    " _Drôle fille_ ," he'd muttered. Weird girl.

    That night, as I'd drifted off to sleep, Jackson'd murmured, "For the record, _cher_ , Bayou folk think Bobby Boucher's a negative stereotype."

    When I'd finally understood what he'd meant, I'd been shocked he'd even seen the movie, much less recognized the quote.

    Nibbling my lip, I'd worried I might've actually offended the Cajun. Just as I'd opened my mouth to apologize, I caught sight of his reflection in the driver's side window. One side of his lips'd been curled into a wicked half-grin.

 

 

    Back at the library doors, Jackson bent his elbow and whipped a fist in the air--like a show of solidarity or something.

    He jabbed a finger in my direction before aiming a peace sign toward his own eyes.

    I pressed my lips into a grim line, nodding decisively in fake understanding.

    Sometimes, he'd mix it up with other gestures, like pointing a forefinger toward the sky in a turn-aroundmotion or tapping an imaginary wrist watch.

    I liked how he kept the routine from getting stale, always bringing out new material. I appreciated the variety.

    Some of the gestures were easy to interpret. Others, I had only vague ideas. And still, there were a few I didn't understand _whatsoever_.

    The most frustrating signal was when he raised three fingers.

    It hadn't been worth his eye-roll or being called _coo-yôn_ to ask what three fingers meant.

    Was it three minutes? Three seconds? _Three Musketeers_?

    The mystery of _the three_ was driving me crazy. And I was guessing I hadn't even seen his full hand signal repertoire.

    In the end, I decided to assume every unknown gesture meant, _Doan move and stay quiet, you._

    Jackson swapped his crossbow for the gun and again, I gave him my best _trained in military combat_ chin jerk, holding the bow like it wasn't awkward as hell.

    He looked to the sky.

    Did Jackson pray? If so, What did he pray for?

    The patience _not_ to throttle me?

    As he pushed open the door, there was a long, echoing creak. Inhaling a deep breath, he pressed a forefinger against his lips and listened intently. In the distance, I recognized the chirp of a dying smoke detector-- _an A.F. songbird._

    With Jackson's attention elsewhere, I rested all casual-like against the wall, awaiting orders from upper command.

    A light breeze stirred the flagpole cords, the occasional echoing pings spurred a memory of my Gran.

    There were only bits and pieces of memories, snatches of images and conversation: a run-down boat dock, sitting on a joggling board eating boiled peanuts, throwing the shells into the dark water, the sound of a  _. . . mandolin?_ Gran asking someone to _". . . play it again for Evie."_

I smiled as another memory snapped to the fore . . . the whining motor of a jet-ski speeding past the dock . . . . Gran saying, "The devil's spawn ride those things! Curse 'em all back to hell!" . . . a man's low, chuckling voice, "Dey goan be caught up in de swamp soon enough, cher. Gators goan eat dem tourists, for true."

 

    But my most vivid memory was of a gleaming, wooden sloop anchored in an inlet. Its sails were the color of bright emeralds. The high wind had slapped the lines in a steady, hypnotizing rhythm against the mast.

   

    I'd longed to see those sails unfurled, pointing excitedly, telling Gran, "That one's _mine_ , right there. That's my boat."

    Brown eyes twinkling, she'd nodded, smoothing her hands down my long, braided pig-tails. "I believe you, sweetheart." Then her expression’d changed, suddenly seeming serious. She’d leaned down to eye-level, gripping my chin. "The world--and everything in it--is _yours_ for the taking." She'd seemed so . . . _fierce._ I remembered feeling . . _. confused?_

    My lids slid shut as I struggled to reach more of my memories.

 

_~Sunshine sparkled on a blue-green sea. Rolling swells lapped the hull, rocking me gently as mast lines tinged a sweet ocean lullaby._

_I rested my cheek and palms against the warm wooden deck. There was a ring on my finger. I reversed my hand, smoothing my thumb against the hot metal . . . back and forth . . . back and forth--keeping time with the rhythm of the waves._

_This wasn't a girl's hand;  It was a woman's--a well loved woman--I somehow knew._

_Calloused fingertips brushed down my spine. Feather soft kisses followed the trail . . ._

_A light touch grazed the back of my knee, making me shiver._

_As sails ruffled overhead, a salty breeze whispered across my skin--my bare skin--I realized without alarm._

_Those roughened fingers tenderly swept my hair to one side, Then warm, wet lips pressed against my nape . . ._

**\--Sudden whiplash!--**

 

    Jackson's rough hands jerked me inside, chaining the doors in one swift motion.

_\--The hell?_

    I blinked my eyes open-- _disoriented_ \--like after one of Matthew's visions.

    I shook my head once . . . _twice,_ trying to clear away the fog.

    Was I day dreaming? _Hallucinating_? Had I somehow fallen asleep . . . _standing up?_ It'd felt so real. I could still smell the sea.

    I pressed my hand to my lips, expecting to taste salt.

_Disgusting_! I grimaced, sputtering sooty ash.

    With a scowl, Jackson snapped his fingers in front of my face.

    _"Reveille!"_ _Wake up!_

    I rolled my eyes, then got busy scrubbing my lips and tongue with the inside of my t-shirt collar.

    Jackson watched this action with bafflement. Then he seemed . . . _weary_ , his expression saying, _I'm not even goan to ask._

    Handing me his wind-up flashlight, he ordered, "Stay close and _doan_ touch anything, _you_."

 

                                                                                                                   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. 4

We passed through a dim corridor into the library's main lobby and I was . . . _spellbound_.

    Soft, silver moon beams spilled through the domed ceiling, warring with the moody green glow of battery powered EXITsigns. A cool breeze whispered through the upper windows, stirring deep drifts of ash over endless stacks of books and paper.

    Turning a slow circle, I craned my head up, marveling at the shattered skylight. Whoever forged this piece had been an artist-- _or a magician,_ I amended. With every rotation, a new shape or symbol peeked from the intricately wrought iron. 

    "Doan move a muscle, _you_."

    With effort, I pried my eyes from the dome and focused on Jackson's retreating back.

    "Where're you going?"

    He tossed over his shoulder, "Goan to kill a bird." 

    I'd been so enthralled, I hadn't even noticed the smoke detector's continuing chirp.

    A minute later, I heard the sounds of destruction and knew Jackson'd found his quarry.

    His disembodied voice echoed through the room.

    " _Bagged it._ "

    One side of my lips curled, but it was a sad smile. Jackson's words from an earlier conversation were  _still_ haunting me. Before I became too morose, my eyes were again drawn toward the enigmatic dome. As I slowly turned in place, a long ago memory stirred, then skittered away-- _a dry leaf on the wind._

    I closed my eyes and, of its own accord, my body began to move. For the first time in ages, I wanted to dance _._ With my arms stretched high, I bent and swayed like wind-blown sugar cane, the demolition noises in the background barely registering.

    On two prior occasions, dying smoke detectors had welcomed us to our eventual overnight shelters. Tonight marked the third. In both of the previous places, Jackson'd smashed _every_ unit to hell . . . whether it chirped or not _._

    A few days back, as we'd walked along a dusty road, through another dusty town, I'd finally remembered to ask why.

    With a surprising amount of patience, he'd explained, "Life of the batteries, _cher_. The ones dat go in together, mostly die out together. You doan want to be dare when it happens in a black night, _non._ It'sa Bagman dinner bell, _for true."_

    He'd closed his eyes, then immediately jerked them open--as if avoiding whatever images might appear. His usual confidence'd slid back into place so quickly, I wondered if I'd imagined the shaky moment entirely.

    "Podna o' mine said some public buildings go on a schedule for replacing doze tings, so if one battery's dying, best assume the next woan be far behind. He said to watch my six in big ole houses too, on account o' some rich folks payin' to get batteries swapped out in one shot.

    He'd paused at that point--slanting a glance at me--seemingly for confirmation on what the _rich folks_ did.

    The batteries in Haven's smoke detectors must've been changed at some point, but I'd never seen it happen. Mom usually paid one of the long-time farm workers to help with smaller things. The specifics of running Haven--the farm and the house--were a mystery to me. In fact, I couldn't remember Mom or Gran sharing _any_ details . . . _not that I'd ever asked._

     The few times I recalled discussing farm business with Mom, she'd always said, _you just let your Mother handle it_ or _your Mother will figure something out._ Haven had passed through five generations of women in my family and I was an only child. Someday, I would've been responsible for keeping it going. Right? Why _hadn't_ I thought to ask questions? And why hadn't my mother  _wanted_ to include me?

    After the Flash, Mom'd wondered if we could use our remaining air filters to somehow keep ash from stealing inside. I hadn't even known what an air filter looked like.

    As I'd walked beside Jackson--trying to keep up with his long strides--I'd rolled my lips inward, deciding to say nothing. I'd felt sure sharing my lack of knowledge about Haven's upkeep would win me no points with him.

    Jackson'd read my response for exactly what it was-- _embarrassment and guilt_. Though he hadn't spoken aloud, his look of disdain had made his thoughts clear enough . . . _rich girl, **still** south of useless._

    And the worst part? I couldn't even disagree. _  
_

    I'd blown out a breath, wondering how the story had taken such a quick turn toward _my_ shortcomings. Then I'd remembered Jackson's comment about smoke alarms being Bagman dinner bells.

    "Where were _you_ when a smoke detector went off?"

    He'd narrowed his eyes. "I never told you dat, _non._ "

    I'd shrugged. "No, but I could tell by the way you talked about it. It seemed like you were speaking from personal experience."

    He'd shifted on his feet. When I'd opened my mouth to ask another question, he'd held up a finger, as if to say,  _Doan rush me,_ glaringat me with what appeared to be resentment.

     Jackson was the most private boy I'd ever met. I guessed he had good reason. His mother had been an alcoholic. His father was a married man who'd never acknowledged him. He'd spent time in a juvenile detention center for violence against one of his step-fathers. _Poor_ didn't begin to describe what I'd seen on the single occasion I'd visited his home.

     He liked to keep his thoughts close to the vest and for once, I'd read him as well as he usually read me.

     It seemed he'd enjoyed the experience about as much as I had . . .

_Not. One. Bit._

    There'd been a long, uncomfortable silence. When he'd finally spoken again, his voice'd been quiet.

     "I'd been in the Louisiana militia 'bout a week, _me_. After the men in charge saw me use a bow, dey put me out on bug-hunts straight away. I told you we went in groups of ten? Daytime hunts into bagger dens? I went on two separate overnights, den I was assigned to a platoon. It was my first long hunt, and we'd been out eight days--eight days of every damn scrap of bad luck you could imagine. Swear it was like the baggers expected us, like _we_ were the prey come to them. Didn't help it was the C.O.'s first time at point. Every man was strung out--no sleep, poor rations. _And dat captain?_  I'm just goan to say,  _he was no leader_ and leave it at dat."

    I couldn't help but interrupt. "Then why was he in charge?"

    Jackson'd scrubbed a hand along his jaw, seeming to consider the question.

    "Maybe he'd been around longer than the next man? Who knows? He knew how to take care of himself, _for true_ , but-- _ting was_ \--he didn't like makin' decisions for the group. Said he told the top dogs dat was the way of it, but dey'd said he had seniority or some shit, told him everybody else was too green. Said he could take the post or leave camp. Surprised every mornin', _me_ , when he didn't bug out and go on his own. I still had Clotile bag then--didn't know what dat was like-- _bein' alone . . ._ how too much of it can make a man crazy."

    Clotile was the girl who may or may not have shared a father with Jackson. Though neither of them had known the truth for sure, he'd treated her like a sister all the same.

    Jackson's candor had been uncharacteristic, but I'd liked it--liked the easy talk between us--instead of our usual fighting.

    "What kind of captain were you? I bet you were a good one." 

    He'd narrowed his eyes. "Who said I was a captain?"

    _"God, Jackson!_ Give me a _little_ credit. You said the other man was a captain because he'd survived the most hunts. If you were there eight months and they wouldn't let anyone turn the job down, it's just common sense."

    Jackson'd looked at me appraisingly-- _stubbling_ once again--as if seeing something new.

    Finally, he'd nodded, saying, "Dat makes sense, _yea_." It'd been a long time before he'd spoken again.

    "Guess I _was_ a good leader. _Who'd a thought?_ Right? At first, it was _etrange--strange--_ 'cause most of the men were older. But word got around I always came back with my nine. After awhile, nobody gave a damn about my age. Part of it was pickin' my own crew-- _all Bayou boys._ Clotile needed me, so I wasn't goin' out with a bunch of _coo-yôn_ fuck-ups, _non."_

    Jackson'd seen me wince at his language. He'd tilted his head in acknowledgement. _"Pardon, cher._ Sometimes I forget, _me."_

    "Forget what?"

    He'd hesitated, then shrugged.

    "You ain't like the _filles_ I grew up with. You're soft and you're fine. Your face gets all pinched when I say fuck and _putain."_ He'd gestured toward me with a wave of his hand.  _"Mais yea, like dat . . .  exactement."_

    I'd tried to smooth my expression, once again unsure how to take Jackson's words.

    "Tings ain't like dey used to be,  _peekôn_. Dare's no guidebook to follow. Might makes right-- _end of story_. Got to get tough, _you_ , if you're goan to survive."

 _\--Insult_  it is, then.

   " _But_ , den again . . . " He'd smiled grandly. "You got _me_ watchin' your six . . . and maybe I like you all _soft_ and _fine."_

  _\--Compliment?_

 _"Wait_. . . what happened on the eighth day? The hunt with the bad C.O.?

    "You even know what C.O. means, _you?"_

    I'd rolled my eyes. " _Everybody_ knows that one."

    He'd raised his brows in question.

    "Commanding Officer." _Please_ , like I'd never seen _Star Trek!_

    At that point, we'd been walking for hours. Jackson'd motioned toward a warped guard rail and we'd shrugged off our packs, sitting on the metal so I could rest. Before continuing the story, he'd snagged the whiskey from his boot, taking several long pulls.

    "On the eighth day, we lost two men in a baggers' den."  He'd paused, gripping the flask so tight, the skin of his knuckles'd stretched white.

     "A third man, _podna of mine,_ got scratched and had to be . . . _put down."_

    He'd stared down at his crossbow, his expression blank. When he'd caught me following the direction of his gaze, he'd frowned and cleared his throat.

    Another long pause . . . Another shot from the flask. He'd wiped his mouth against his sleeve.

    "Storms were . . . _bad_ dat night. We ended up in a courthouse--planned to hunker down 'til the worst was over. One of doze damned smoke alarms was makin' noise every half a minute, or so. Echoes made it hard to track. One of the men finally found it, told the C.O. he was goan to knock 'em all down to be safe. Captain said _no_ , said we'd be gone as soon as the winds let up. Den he put dat man and me out on first watch. "

    Jackson's jaw had been clinched tight when he'd looked away, saying, "You can guess the rest."

    I'd whispered, " _Maybe_ , but you can still tell me. I mean . . . if you want to."

    He'd said nothing, just stared into the distance. I thought he'd say no more, but a few minutes later, when he'd spoken again, his voice had been _eerily_ calm.

     "Storms never died. It was late-- _middle of the night--_ when the next one went off. _Bedlam_. No other way to describe it. Not a man dare could find the source and dat high sound kept singin' and callin' every bagger for miles. We mighta been okay, _who knows?_ Den one of doze _coo-yôns_ starts blastin' his shotgun at the ceiling. After dat, I knew we were done, _for true_. Baggers rolled in like an _army_ , Evie. Dare was no moon and no good vantage point. We couldn't even see 'em comin', and dey _kept_ comin'--seemed like hundreds of 'em--crawlin' in from God only knows where."

   Jackson'd shuddered, his face looking pale. I'd covered his hand with mine, holding my breath as I'd waited to hear the rest. He'd swallowed thickly before continuing.

    "When all the arrows-- _and bullets_ \--were spent, we used whatever we could find . . . hand-to-hand. First time I killed one without my bow. I could hear the other men fighting, yelling . . . Last tings I heard were the screams."

    Eyes wide, I'd squeezed Jackson's hand tighter, terrified just listening.

    "Doan know how long me and my new best podna fought like dat, _back-to-back_ in the pitch dark. When we made our way out at sunrise, we climbed over a _mountain_ of the dead, waiting and listening for our fellow soldiers. Not one other man made it out, Evie. _Not one_. We went back in to be sure--salvaged a few arrows--made sure none of our men would turn. Dat was the promise we all made."

I hadn't failed to notice his pained expression, the way he'd rubbed over his scarred hands again and again or how his eyes had kept flickering toward his bow.

 _"Seven_ men walked into dat building at nightfall, and only me and my podna walked out."

   He'd glanced down at my hand on his, seeming to come back to the present. Standing abruptly, he'd quickly donned his gear-- _back to business._ With a stoic expression, he'd said, _"So_ , you and me, _Evangeline Greene_ . . . we doan take any chances. _Compris?"_

   I'd understood.

   Nodding my head, I'd forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. "Got it, open season on _every_ songbird . . .  whether it sings or not, _yea?"_

  _"Ouais,"_ he'd said simply. 

  

 

    I'd been lost in thought, reliving all Jackson'd shared, as my body continued mindlessly bending and swaying in the library's muted moonlight. A deep voice woke me from the spell.

    "Who taught you to blow like dat?"

    I stilled. _"Blow?"_

    After a moment, a lightbulb blinked on as I registered Jackson's meaning.

    "Oh . . . you mean _whistle_?"

    " _Mais yea_ , whistle."

    I didn't feel like talking about Mel, so I shrugged, saying simply, " _N_ _é_ _cessit_ _é_. _"_

    He glanced at me sideways--suspicious-like--as if I might've been making fun of him.

    Seeming satisfied I wasn't, he turned and we ventured on.

    I thought that was the end of the subject, but a minute later he added, "Best I ever heard, _sans doute."_ _Without a doubt._

    I grinned like a Jack-o-lantern at the unexpected praise.

   

    The main floor was a mine field of toppled furniture and broken glass. I tried to keep up, winding the flashlight again and again as we climbed mountains of books and ash.

    In short order, I'd earned _one_ bruised hip, _two_ cracked shins and _three_ grated reminders, _like a shadow, you._

    "You got a problem with dat chicken place?"

    Jackson's question froze me in my tracks.

    When we'd walked past a business board pinned with various flyers and promotions, I'd quickly averted my gaze from a _Chick-fil-A_ ad, only catching a glimpse of the menacing Holsteins.

 _Yes, I'd searched the breeds._ What was that saying about knowing your enemy?

    Jackson must've noticed my unease. 

    "Wh-Why would you say that?"

    My voice had gone high, sounding panicked.

    " 'Cause you go _bug-eyed_ every time we see a sign."

    After Jackson's _fous_ comments, I wasn't eager to share another example of my crazy.

    I turned my back to him, trying to think of a believable lie.

    Eyes gone wide, my hand flew to my mouth. I nearly dropped the flashlight.

    " _Oh my_ _God!_ Jackson . . . _look!"_

    Moonlight glinted off a towering structure.

    A pair of massive metal tree trunks flanked the entrance-- _we'd walked right under them!_

 _It was a treehouse!_ A _house_ within a metal tree! Heart thumping with excitement, I stared in wonder, my feet rooted to the spot.

   Jackson snapped his fingers behind me, proclaiming, _"Sweet Olive."_  I'd ask what that meant later. For now, the sculpture held all my attention.

      It must've been a reading loft, I reasoned. Sleek metal stairs circled each trunk. At the second floor landing, the trees and staircases merged into a single column, the underside creating the peak of the entryway arch.

    My eyes followed the combined trunk up and up, where a canopy of glinting branches spread wide beneath a final, tiny platform--this one bucket shaped, like a ship's look-out tower.

    The gleaming metal rods of the floating staircase seemed to flow around the tree like swirling liquid. When I fanned the flashlight from top to bottom, light shimmered on the spill of metal like stars on a moonlit waterfall.

    Each of the curving leaves captured stray beams, multiplying the light. The reflections bounced back and forth between other leaves. In the space of two seconds, the entire tree became luminescent . . .  _ALIVE!_

    My eyes burned with the effort not to cry. Again, I thought of the once proud oaks at Haven, and the battle was lost.

    It was then, through a wet prism of heartache, the broken stained glass behind the sculpture came into focus. I tilted my head to the side, considering it once more.

    Aquamarine sparkled in the bottom section, while the remaining emerald green shards clung fast above. Toward the middle, the remnants were deep purple, violet and lavender. The top third held bits of amber, crimson and gold.

    I hadn't been able to decipher any of it from the outside looking in; but from this _new_ perspective, I could see so much more.

    The vibrant green shards had once been a backdrop for the canopy of the metal tree. I was sure of it. The purples reminded me of distant fields of rolling heather. The cluster of tiny red shards near the top had to be the remains of the sun on the horizon. I didn't know if it was a sunset or a sunrise. _Could be both_ , I supposed. The lighter blue at the bottom was a mystery. _Maybe it was a flowing stream? A road?_ I couldn't be sure.

    I had the sudden mental image of what it would've looked like at the end of the day.

    The afternoon sun would've projected colors through the glowing glass, backlighting the tree . . . 

    I quickly spun, looking behind me. A tall dividing wall sat behind a long counter in the rear of the lobby. In the dim light, the wall appeared to be a dull gray. I imagined it was once bright white, to better showcase the kaleidoscope colors of the glass. The entire surface was blank except for an odd, grouping of red circles. When I strained to look closer, I realized they were individual stained glass windows.

Apples. They were _apples._

    I imagined them shimmering within the green projections at sunset.

    When I turned back to the tree, my tears fell freely. _Pommier_ , I thought. _Apple tree._

    How long had it been since I'd seen a living tree? The day of the Flash?

    I wiped away another tear.  _Would I ever see one again?_

    In a harsh tone Jackson snapped, "Aim down, _you_. Could be people in town."

    I jumped and spun back around. I'd been so caught up in the glass, I'd forgotten I wasn't alone.

    Jackson shielded his eyes from the light shining directly in his face.

    "S-Sorry."

    I pointed the beam at the floor, quickly turning away before he saw my tears.

    After taking a moment to compose myself, I slowly exhaled and gave my tree a last, longing look.

    . . . _I'll be back . . . I promise._

    Then I remembered what Jackson'd said on the path outside.

_". . . Bet it was a belle fille."_

    Was it possible he saw something of _me_ in the glass? The pattern of the fields? The green of the tree? I couldn't imagine how, but the thought made me smile.

    Without preamble, Jackson upended a bookcase labeled _Romance_ , dumping the contents on the floor before tossing it sideways like a dead aligator. He wedged it against the last fire exit announcing, "Best we can do. Goanto make a final sweep, _me_."

     He jerked his chin in the direction of the restrooms he'd earlier declared safe.

    "Meet me in the hallway bag dare."

     I sighed, then paired a nod serious as the grave with a crisp two-fingered salute.

     His look of warning would've frightened me not too long ago.

    Now, I smiled sweetly.

    Jackson scowled.

    We set off in our opposite directions.

 

 

    "You got plans for dinner?"

    Jackson's voice echoed down the narrow corridor.

    I startled, lowering the flashlight from a bulletin board titled, "WHY MY DAD IS SPECIAL - Third Grade Essay Winners."

    He closed the remaining distance between us, shrugged off our packs, then moved to stand beside me, flask already in hand.

    The way he'd asked the question caught me off guard, like he was home after a long day at work, or maybe even asking me out on a date _._

    I followed Jackson's line of sight, surprised to find my fingers strumming over a curling corner of notebook paper.

    He grabbed the flashlight and peered closer at the essay I touched. And for some reason, I felt . . . _embarrassed_.

    Clearing my throat, I dropped my hand and stepped back.

    After getting the canteen from my pack, I headed toward a long wooden display table on the opposite side of the hall. Placing my water on one end, I turned and hopped up to sit, causing a minor dust cloud eruption.

_"Well . . . "_

    I leaned forward, curling my fingers around the table's edge.

    "Earlier, I was thinking about baking a pie. I was thinking maybe . . . . _blueberry?"_

    Jackson's flask hovered in mid-air, an inch away from his parted lips.

    He lowered the whiskey, his expression amused.

    Cocking a brow, he asked, " _For true?_ "

    I smiled and nodded. _"For true."_

    The flashlight'd nearly dimmed out.

    Instead of winding it again, he set it on his pack and moved close beside me, leaning a shoulder against the brick wall just inches away.

    In the faint moonlight, I could see his half-grin, the one that provoked the butterflies in my stomach. He gestured toward me with the flask.

    "So . . .  tell me, _cher_. How'd you know dat was ole Jack's favorite?"

    I bit my bottom lip. I liked this game.

    Adding _extra_ sugar to my voice, I said, "I knew it the first day I saw you at school."

    I crossed my ankles, swinging my feet.

    "When you took off your motorcycle helmet, I thought, now _there's_ a boy who appreciates a good blueberry pie."

    I flashed my best smile.

    Jackson's grin grew wide.

    Placing the flask on the table — _just so_ — he hooked both thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans, crossing his legs at the ankles. The only thing missing was the Stetson-- _Jackson the Cajun Cowboy._

    His face grew animated, his accent thick as honey — _delicious!_

    " _Mais, yea, peek_ _ô_ _n,_  " he drawled.

    "Dat'll go good with the spot. Traded half a day's catch down at Nello's place, so we can have crayfish too. You ever eat fried spot?"

    Grinning back at him, I rolled my eyes.

    " _Please_ , boy. I'm from Sterling, _not the moon_."

    Lips still curling, he gave me that sexy chin jerk, raising the flask in salute before taking a generous swig.

    We smiled at each other for a long moment. Me on the table swinging my feet. Jackson leaning against the wall, occasionally sipping from the flask.

    The longer the silence stretched, the more uncomfortable I felt. We'd never been this close or this still for _this_ long. I admired his lantern jaw, the cleft in his chin; It was just so . . . _Superman_. The glint of his ever-present black onyx rosary caught my eye, the cross resting just above the perfect amount of dark chest hair. I stared up at the tiny line dividing his slightly fuller bottom lip. His thick, jet-black hair was longer than when we'd first met, hanging so it covered one glowing gray eye, the tips curling to rest atop one chiseled cheek bone.

    I had no idea how long I'd been staring, but Jackson seemed to be cataloging my features just as intently. There was a crackling energy between us. It swirled around me, through me. Maybe it'd swept through him too because we'd both stopped smiling, both of us breathing faster. Jackson's husky voice finally broke the silence.

    "You're right and wrong, _ma belle_."

    Another shot from the flask.

    I swallowed.

    "About what?"

    My voice had taken on a breathy quality, the one that usually meant I was about to do something stupid.

    I'd been absently twirling my ponytail. Now I twisted the length around my finger until I reached the end, bringing the tip to my lips--tickling back and forth--wishing it was _his_ lips brushing over mine.

    Jackson's eyes locked on the movement.

    His voice went from husky to downright gravel.

    "Right about the pie, _cher--_ wrong about the other."

    I shivered, watching his Adam's Apple bob as he swallowed.

    "I told you before, Jack Deveaux ain't a _boy_ , _non_."

    There was heat in his stare and . . . _challenge_?

    Suddenly very thirsty, I unscrewed the lid of my canteen and took a long, slow drink.

    Jackson swigged from the flask. The silence hung thick between us.

    I stared, mesmerized by the drop of whiskey clinging to his bottom lip like ripe fruit on a vine.

    When his tongue slid out to slowly lick it away, I couldn't stop myself from copying the movement.

    Giving myself an inner shake, I capped the water, then hopped off the desk, dusting off my backside.

    Avoiding eye contact, I did my best to sound casual.

    "I'll go get cleaned up; _Then_ I'll get started on that pie."

    Placing the canteen on the table, I pulled my ponytail loose, shaking out the dust and ash.

    I'd never get used to the idea of actual remains _in my hair._

    Bending at the waist, I combed my fingers through the mass of tangles.

    With a final wild toss, I flipped upright, trying to pat the wild beast down.

    "Shouldn't we be deciding where to sleep?" I turned toward the _empty_ spot where Jackson'd just stood.

    "I know _exactly_ where I'd like to be sleepin', _cher_."

    His voice was a low rumble at my ear.

    I yelped, spinning around.

    With a wicked gray-eyed gleam, he circled his big hands around my waist, crowding me against the wall. The brick at my back was rough beneath my palms.

    Jackson's grin was wolfish. He loomed over me, pressing his forearms over my head, caging me in.

    I craned my neck up to meet his gaze.

    With hooded eyes, he leaned in close, inhaling long and deep as he rubbed a lock of my hair.

     " _Comme une fleur,_ " he murmured. _Like a blossom_.

    I swallowed, my eyes roving over his handsome face, his strong shoulders.

    His hips rolled toward me, pressing _closer_ . . .

    My body responded the only way it seemed able, my hips rolling to meet his, ready to join in whatever rhythm we created. 

    Mere inches separated me from the tan skin peeking from the vee of his gray button down.

   What would he do if I stretched upward? Pressed my lips against his chest, his neck?

   Waves of heat surged to my face and other places. I quickly looked down, flustered further by the sight of our bodies brushing against each other, the way they _moved_ together . . . 

   I raised my eyes to meet his.  "S-Stop playing with me, Jackson. It's not nice."

   He didn't stop playing.

   With a surprisingly gentle touch, he smoothed the hair from my forehead, tucking it behind my ears.

   Brushing his fingertips along my jaw, then down my throat; he traced a soft path around to my nape.

 _What would he do next?_ I held my breath.

   With a half-smile, he loosened the knot of my bandanna.

   "Oh, It's nice, _peekôn._ Trust me. It's _real_ nice."

   When his stormy eyes locked on mine, all traces of humor quickly disappeared.

    Pulling my bandanna free, he folded it in half three times, slowly — _deliberately_ — before tucking it into his back pocket.

    Rubbing his palms down his thighs, he licked his lips.

    With one hand gripping my waist, he pinched the zipper of my hoodie between his thumb and forefinger.

    Tilting his head to the side, he raised an eyebrow in question as he eased it down . . .

        lower

        and

        lower.

    I remembered Jackson's groaning words from the sugar mill,

   " _Want a taste of dat girl, me_."

   This time the memory didn't make me angry.

   No, _not angry at all._

   He leaned in close and his breath was hot; Stubble scraped my cheek. His words hummed against my skin. "Now dat I got you here with all deze books, we're goan to do some . . . _research, Evangeline_."

   I _loved_ it when he said my name like that: so _deep_ , so _sexy_.

   When his lips brushed along the shell of my ear, heat flashed through me in surprising places. When he nipped my earlobe, my toes curled in delight.

   My voice was low and breathy.

   " _Ahh_ , _Jackson_.... What’re you doing to me?" _Please don't stop._

   With hooded eyes, he peeled the hoodie from my shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. The zipper's ping echoed down the darkened hall.

    When his hand returned to my waist, he worked it around to my back, kneading my flesh.

    I shivered when he slipped his fingers up beneath the hem of my white t-shirt, his palm big and warm against my bare back.

    Slowly, _achingly_ so . . . . his other hand hovered over my chest.

    When he finally reached closer, he touched the hollow of my throat, dipping the callused pad of his middle finger inside. His forearm _accidentally_ brushed over one of the tight points beneath my t-shirt. I sucked in a breath . . . 

    With a shaky voice, I murmured, " _Please_. . . . Whatever you're doing . . . _Please, Jackson_ . . . _Please, don't stop."_

    The look he gave said _stopping_ was the last thing on his mind. He grazed his fingertips back and forth along the length of my right collarbone, seeming entranced by the movement.

    When I felt his finger slide inside the vee neck of my t-shirt, my lips parted.

    "So _soft_ ," he murmured. "So _fine_."

    When he neared my bra strap, he lingered, tracing his thumb back and forth over the silk. Then slowly-- _so slowly_ \--he stretched my t-shirt collar down past my shoulder, leaving it pulled snug against my bicep. The hand on my back'd been flexing and moving, but froze in place as he bent his head, brushing his lips across the curve of my shoulder. His teeth nipped, tugging at my bra strap. I couldn't hide my shiver.

    He leaned back; Then, using the same rough finger, he brushed back and forth over the pink bra strap as if the scrap of material was the most fascinating thing in the world. My breaths seemed shockingly loud in the dark hallway. I was so busy watching Jackson lick his lips _yet again_ , I almost failed to notice when he slipped a finger beneath the strap, stretching it down over my bunched shirt collar. I opened my mouth--to say what, I didn't know--but lost my words after taking in Jackson's fierce expression. I decided to close my eyes and tilt my head back, reveling in the feel of his callused fingers feathering against my collarbone, his hot breath against my ear, my neck.

     His hips had continued their slow, languid pace--rocking, grinding, moving in tandem with his circling fingers. My body met his each time he pressed closer. 

     To me, this was like learning a new dance. Each step important on its own, but no single move more important than the whole. Something told me Jackson would be _wicked_ on a dance floor. I pictured us in a dark club, moving to a slow, moody beat. I bit my bottom lip, unable to stifle a moan.

    When I opened my eyes, I found Jackson staring at my mouth. He quickly looked away, focusing on his own movements. He was stroking my collarbone, dipping his fingers in and out of the hollow there. He seemed to be learning my skin, studying my reactions. A _collarbone man_. Who knew?

    Whenever his gaze flickered from his hand to my eyes, I broke out in fresh goose bumps. He did this again and again, seeming surprised-- _and pleased_ \--at his effect on me.

    He traced another slow line back to the hollow of my throat. I couldn't read his expression, but it seemed . . . _calculating_?

    Disappointment washed over me when he moved to pull up my bra strap, setting my t-shirt collar to rights. He was oblivious to my distress because he'd already begun stretching the collar down past my left shoulder, lowering the other bra strap, just as he had on my right side. He repeated his movements. Calloused fingers stroking, circling . . . the hand on my back flexing, holding me tight against him . . . hips circling in those slow, controlled patterns. Back and forth he stroked . . . _over and over_ . . . slowly touching, _teasing . . . gauging_  my reactions. He drew me in closer . . . _and closer._

     My heart was pumping too fast; I felt light-headed . . . dizzy.

     By the time he lingered again at the base of my throat, I was gasping for air.

     After settling my collar back to center, I thought he'd continue the routine. I even raised my right shoulder in offering. Instead, he closed his eyes and leaned in, rubbing his nose against mine. His rocking hips slowed, then stilled.

     Exhaling a deep, shuddering breath, he scraped close against my cheek and rasped, "Bébé, we got a History project to work out, non?"

    Once again, I had no idea if he was teasing me . . . I couldn't even come up with another explanation. And to be honest? I couldn't think about _anything_ beyond the heat of him surrounding me.

    With a start, I remembered I had hands.

    Jerking them from the wall, I hooked my forefingers through Jackson's front belt loops, pulling him tight against me in a rush.

    His body went rigid. I stared up at his eyes as the irises flooded nearly black. A fine quake seemed to rumble through him; My body responded likewise. We stood stock still, riding out the trembling together. 

    Jackson grimaced as if he was in actual pain. Using one hand to grip my chin, he held my gaze up toward his. The hand on my back briefly disappeared as his lower body pulled away from me. I wasn't sure what he was doing, fumbling with something . . . then, the hand against my bare back returned, while the other stroked down the column of my neck. 

     I pulled at his belt loops once again, but he didn't move. Without knowing exactly what I was asking for, I whispered, " _Please,"_  tugging him toward me again.

     Indecision seemed to war in his expression. The only thing I could imagine, was how intense our physical attraction was, versus how little he actually _liked_  me _._ Without making the conscious decision, I stepped forward, closing the gap. My eyes widened as my mouth made the shape of a small "o".

    There was something hard pressed between us.

    Was that . . . could that be . . . _Jackson?_  I swallowed, flushing crimson. My experiences in this area numbered exactly none-point-none.

    Whatever it was seemed too impossibly hard to be anyone's body part. Should I . . . _investigate?_

    Ignoring my surprise, he skimmed his fingers down past the hollow of my throat, laying a hot palm flat against my heaving chest.  A small sound escaped me when he smoothed his fingers lower, brushing the sides of my breasts as he traced down the valley between. Hooking two fingertips behind the front clasp of my bra, he gave a soft tug.

    Tilting his head, he stared at me once more, his expression questioning . . . . _tempting_.

    My body thrummed with tension, like a bow string ready to snap. And Jackson? He just kept pulling  _tighter_ and _tighter_.

    I heard a tiny _click_ and my too-tight bra parted, leaving nothing but a threadbare t-shirt between _me_ and Jackson's palm.

    Pulling his belt loops with even more force, I arched myself closer, willinghim to touch me _there_ , to touch me _anywhere_. . . _Everywhere_!

    When the hand on my lower back stilled, I knew he'd brushed against the tiny red bow at the top of my lace panties. With a rumbled growl, he _wrenched_ my lower body to his.

    At some point, the rhythm of his rocking hips had increased, no longer _slow and_ steady.

    _Yes!_ I decided with purpose. It was _definitely_ time to investigate. With as much stealth as possible, I slipped my forefinger from one of his belt loops, sliding it between his shirt and jeans. Just before I reached the metal button filled with so much promise, my knuckles unexpectedly brushed the hard length I'd felt earlier. A _waistband topper,_ Mel would've called it. Jackson jolted as if touched by a live wire. I was still trying to process what'd happened-- _what I should do next._ I was embarrassed, excited . . . _overwhelmed._

    All at once, it was as if the Earth stopped spinning.

    Everything went still, a moment suspended in time.

    Jackson pinned me with a look so intense, so _carnal_ , I lost my breath.

    Then, I _felt_ his deep voice rumble through me.

    "I want in, _ange_. _. . Let me in._ "

    In a daze, I nodded, agreeing with whatever he was saying.

 _Had he said those words before?_ I couldn't think.

    I pressed one palm against his muscled chest, the thumb of my other hand circling the button of his jeans.

    I barely recognized my throaty whisper.

    "Jackson . . . _c-can I_. . . _I mean_. . . I want to touch you."

    I stilled my hands and met his gaze directly.

    "Can I touch you?"

    With a low groan, he closed his eyes, pressing his forehead to mine.

    He continued _rolling_ his hips against me, moving _faster_ now, pressing _harder . . . ._

    I dragged my nails down his chest curling my fingers into the waistband of his jeans.

    He hissed in a breath. _"Ahh, b_ _é_ _b_ _é_ _!"_

    Wanting, no _needing_ my hands on his bare skin, I thrilled at how quickly I was able to untuck his shirt, then despaired at my fumbling attempts with a button. After a frustrating three seconds, I grabbed both shirt tails, pulling in opposite directions. I didn't know how many buttons pinged against the tile. I only knew his hot skin was pressed against a sliver of my exposed stomach. My hands had circled around, gripping the corded muscles of his back.

    I couldn't catch my breath. Each time he pushed his hips into me, I felt those muscles roll and play. Some instinct took over and I scored my nails down his back--maybe harder than I'd intended. If I'd been in my right mind, I might've been concerned, but Jackson didn't even seem to notice, except by way of rocking his hips _faster,_ moving against me in a kind of frenzy.

    I was sucking in lungfuls of air, my breasts crushed against his solid chest. And the friction was . . . _perfect_.

    Jack was back at my ear, murmuring _le Cadien Francais_ so low and fast I could barely make out the words.

    We were both frantic now-- _gasping, rocking, shuddering_.

    He threaded the hand on my back beneath my bra, his huge palm clasping the back of my neck.

    The move pulled my t-shirt high and tight beneath my breasts, almost high enough to feel his bare skin against me _there_. I wanted my shirt gone. I wanted _his_ shirt gone. 

    When he moved one hand to my upper rib cage, his thumb might've brushed the underside of the swell. He was making me crazy . . . _out-of-control._

    I moaned, arching my back once more, _straining_ toward the heat from Jackson's palm.

    I willed him to _touch_ me, to _kiss_ me.

    He moved his hand toward the tingling point beneath my shirt. I held my breath as the rough scars of his knuckles brushed over me  _once . . . twice . . ._ then finally, he cupped me with his heated palm.

    I cried out. " _Jackson!"_

  I needed _. . . something . . ._

    I didn't know _what_ I needed. _Probably a cold shower_. I feared I might burst into flame.

    With a start, I realized my feet no longer touched the ground. Jack had us positioned so the hardest part of him, ground against the most desperate part of me. The brick wall was rough behind me--and I couldn't have cared less. In total abandon now, I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, my hands frantically rubbing, touching the hot skin beneath his shirt.

     I buried my face in the bend of his neck, thinking . . _._

_Kiss me Jack . . . please, kiss me . . ._

     The entire universe narrowed down to the spaces where we touched.

     I'd begun the repeated plea--

_"Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God! Oh, God!"_

     I was shouting louder, knew I was headed toward the mysterious peak I'd only heard about.

     Jack matched my shouted pace, chanting, _"Evie! Evie! Evie! Evie!"_

     He pulled back and grasped the back of my head, his breathing harsh, gray eyes blazing in his flushed, gorgeous face. Pressing his thumb hard against my cheek bone, he wrapped his fingers around my nape. _Would he kiss me now?_

     He crushed my face against his, stubble abraiding my cheek, breath scalding hot against my ear. When I felt his nipping teeth, I moaned long and loud, then turned my head, finding his ear to do the same.

     Hissing in a breath, he began moving _supernaturally_ fast, pounding harder, shouting, "Bébé!"

     That was when I felt it, something wet dripping down my back. And I froze. 

     It was blood. I knew it, knew I'd scraped my back against the brick.

_Ignore it, Evie. Forget about it!_

     Indecision warred within me. I thought I'd rather _die_ than call a stop to this . . . this whatever you called what we were doing. Then again, I didn't know what my blood could do. Back at Haven, I'd coaxed crops from seed with my blood alone. Who knew what other surprises it held? I needed to get far away from Jackson, needed to keep this secret for now. _Didn't I?_ Logic said this was true, but my body pleaded with my mind, begging me to ignore common sense. I wavered.

     Jackson'd clearly sensed my sudden tension, pulling back with a look of confusion. His eyes darted over _my_ eyes, my hair, my cheeks. Whatever he saw made him jerk away as if he'd been burned.

    _No! No! No!_ Why was he pulling away? And _why_ wouldn't he kiss me?

    _Why can't I kiss him?_ The moment I thought the question, I stepped forward.

     Wetting my lips, I reached up for his shoulders, steadying myself on tiptoes. In the space of a heartbeat, he was gone. I swayed on my feet, reaching back toward the wall for support.

    Jackson stood at the opposite wall, his face half hidden in shadows.

    Trembling, confused . . . I stared dumbly at the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

    He continued raking his gaze up and down my body. When his eyes locked on _my_  chest, I looked down and quickly crossed my arms, feeling my open bra bunch underneath.

    I hadn't realized how thin my shirt was, knew I was bright red with embarrassment.

    I tilted my head down so I could peek up at him through a veil of hair.

    Pushing his own hair back from his face, he glared.

    I swore I could read his thought . . . _Doan you hide from me!_

    After another charged moment, he shifted his stance, seeming uncomfortable. When my gaze traveled down the length of _his_ long body, I could easily see past his gaping shirt tails to the source of Jackson's discomfort. My eyes widened and I attempted to look away. I did, _really_. Curiosity soundly trounced embarrassment and I quickly abandoned all pretense, staring in _blatant_ fascination. I wanted to look at him without the barrier of his jeans. _What would it feel like?_ I curled my hands into fists, willing myself _not_  to reach for him, _not_ to take a step forward.

    The movement of Jackson's hand shook me from the trance. He'd reached for the object of my interest, making some kind of adjustment. I swallowed as heat ran through me once more. I chanced a look up at Jack's expression. It was a mix of anger, lust, pain and confusion. Or maybe those were _my_ feelings. I looked at his face again, his eyes. I had the sudden mental image of a volcano the split second before it spewed hot lava toward the sky. All that banked pressure, the molten heat barely held in check by a rigid tension. I felt an answering tension in my own body. I looked away, but not before a single tear tracked down my cheek.

    Jackson threw his head back, yelling, "Fuck!" Pulling back his fist, he landed a blow against the brick, resulting in a sickening bone-crunching thud. When he laced his fingers behind his head, I could see the blood flowing freely.  He didn't even seem to notice, just stared up at the ceiling. At length, he exhaled a pent-up breath, dropping his hands to his sides.

    I realized I'd been frozen to the same spot for an uncomfortable length of time. _What was I waiting for?_

    Still facing the wall, Jackson straightened one arm, pressing an open palm against the brick while propping the other hand on his hip. He stared at the floor until his breaths grew calm and even.

    I'd been trying to figure a way to leave without revealing my back--which had surely bled through my t-shirt--when Jackson turned abruptly, scooping up his bag and cross-bow. His boots thudded against the tile as he strode away.

    Without a backward glance, he grated, "Doan forget the gun, _you_."

    I slumped against the wall.

 _Excellent!_  He was pissed-- _yet_   _again._  

     "Jackson . . . _Wait!"_

     Without looking back, he threw his hand up in a _not now_ gesture and kept walking. Was he embarrassed because I'd felt _him_? Did he think _I_ was embarrassed? Well, maybe I was. But really, I'd been more surprised.

     Grabbing my pack and the gun, I headed toward the door marked, " _Women_."

 

 


	5. 5

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moonlight _blazed_ through the restroom's skylight. 

    I reached toward the wall on my right and flipped the switch. _God!_ I _hated_ when I did that. It wasn't so much that I'd forgotten about the lack of electricity, it was just reflex to turn on a light or twist a faucet. In private homes, I still found myself glancing at microwaves or cable boxes to check the time. There was always this split-second of confusion, followed by a fleeting impulse to problem solve. Then reality would land a sucker punch and I'd remember the Flash all over again. I glared at the switch plate, then up at the fluorescent bulbs for good measure.

    After failing to intimidate the light fixture _whatsoever_ , I scanned the sinks and paper towel dispensers. Stocked and all  _manual_ \-- _awesome_.

    Back in a Louisiana truck stop, I'd been thrilled to find enough soap and water to wash my hands. Then I'd felt ridiculous after sticking them underneath the sensored hand dryer.  Once the cycle had played out: confusion, problem solving, reality sucker punch, anger, sadness; I just used my jeans. My clothes had been caked with so much dirt and ash, my hands'd ended up even dirtier than before. The _real_ problem had come a few hours later.  

    I'd returned to the car, the lingering water mixing with the swirling dust. Crawling into the passenger's seat, I'd folded my hands--prayer-like--and immediately fallen asleep. When I awoke and looked down, nothing short of terror had gripped me. Even now, I still didn't understand exactly what'd happened.

    Raised edges from my backpack and seatbelt had dried into random patterns on the back of my dirt covered hand. A bizarre thought about _wearing marks_  had burst into the forefront of my mind. It'd been accompanied by a pain so excruciating, I'd truly thought I might die.

    After the initial blow, I'd spiraled into some kind of mental free fall. Everything'd gotten all jumbled in my head. The next thing I remembered was Jackson stopping the car. He'd thought the episode was about my mother and I'd let him think it. How could I explain what _I_ didn't understand?

    Since then, it'd become  _monumentally_ important to keep my hands as clean as possible. I recognized this probably wasn't the best sign as far as my mental health was concerned. But honestly, compared to hearing a dozen or more threatening voices in my head, being a fifth generation lunatic, having hallucinations, seeing visions, experiencing life-like nightmares, growing fingernails into thorn claws, having blood that instantly grew vegetation . . . I figured O.C.D. was small potatoes.

    Jackson had picked up on this latest oddity even before I had. 

    "What's your fixation with hand drying?" He'd asked.

     It was only later I'd wondered about the way he'd phrased the question, asking about the _drying_ , not the hand _washing_.Maybe the problem had more to do with the  _water_ than it did with the dirt?

    At any rate, I treated it the same way I treated everything else when I felt overwhelmed, telling myself-- _Put it away, Evie. You can think about it tomorrow_.

    Post-Flash hand washing wasn't as difficult as I'd expected. Especially since the Ladies restrooms were _never_ rolled. Even when a store'd been gutted--walls stripped down to bare studs-- the _Women's_  bathrooms remained untouched.

    On our third day out, I'd mentioned this to Jackson.

    He'd scratched his chin, looking thoughtful.

    "Only females I've seen or even heard of sourcing, were you and your _mère_ .  _. ._ and Clotile." He'd looked away as he said the last.

    "Even when it's hell all around, men doan want to be near . . . _female_ tings."

     At the time, I'd rolled my eyes; but I had to admit, Jackson's theory was as good as any.

  _Another interesting fact?_ Apparently, men didn't use hand soap before _or_ after the Flash.

    I'd asked Jackson to bring out any soap packets he found in the Men's.

    He'd emerged with a full or nearly full pouch from almost every dispenser he'd encountered. The Ladies soaps were usually low and often empty.

    When I'd asked Jackson's opinion, he'd said, "Maybe dey got changed more often, on account of men using 'em up so fast." Then he'd smiled, shaking his head, like even _he_ couldn't say it with a straight face.

    "Well, why haven't they taken the packs _since_ the Flash?" I'd asked. "I've got six ofthose babies in my bag right now."

    That'd earned an eyebrow raise.

    The plastic pouches had these cool tubes jutting out. Just one pinch and you had a whole palmful of anti-microbial goodness.

    "Why wouldn't everyone hoard these like gold _?"_  I'd been genuinely baffled.

    Jackson'd spoken in a tone usually reserved for kindergarteners.  
" _Evie_ , the only women around got _taken_. The men who took 'em ain't exactly the courtin' types. Doan give a damn for soap. The ones with no women? Dey care about hygiene even less."

    I'd smiled. "Except for you?"

    " _C'est vrai."_ That's true. He'd said grandly. "Except for me."

    Crossing his arms, he'd added, "Yes, sir . . .ole Jack's one-of-kind." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

There'd been enough moonlight flooding through the bathroom's skylight that I'd frightened myself in the mirror.

    I looked like a reverse raccoon. Sunglasses'd kept the area around my eyes mostly free of ash, but the rest looked like I'd been repairing transmissions . . . _with my face._ And my _Hair of Medusa_ rounded out the look nicely.

    Like a reflex, I'd reached for my pocket to send a pic to Mel, already mentally wording the caption . . .   _Evie Greene - America's Next Top Monster._

    Then I remembered and stilled.

  _Put it away, Evie._  Jackson'll be back soon. _Time's a wastin'._

    Jackson . . . _Jackson_ had just seen me _this_ hideous!

    I was _mortified_. I cast my mind back . . .

    _Yes_ , he had the same partial mask as me. _Yes_ , his hair had been wind blown, but I hadn't even noticed at the time. Even in my memory he looked like a long ago fighter pilot who'd peeled off his goggles after a fierce dogfight in the sky.

    Did he see me the way I saw him _?_ Was he _somehow_ oblivious to my undeniably tragic grooming issues? How could he _not_ notice the dirt and my electrocution-style hair?

    I huffed with irritation, adding a new item to my mental _To Do List:_

  * _Try to look less like a ghoul._



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

     After recovering from my initial shock at the mirror, I'd discovered enough water in the three sinks' pipes to bathe _and_ wash my hair. _Score!_

     I hadn't been this clean since the shrimp boat!

     I'd even had enough water to wash a few clothing items. Using string from my pack, I'd hung a festive banner of damp socks and lingerie.

    "Found us a _bonne_ spot to bed down, _bébé."_

     I was surprised to find Jackson sitting against the wall outside the restroom door in what I'd mentally dubbed _Our Hall_. Not that he wasn't usually guarding whatever door I happened to be inside _\--I'd ponder that thought later--_ but I'd imagined he might make himself a little more . . . _scarce_ on this particular occasion.

     My breath hitched remembering the feel of Jackson's hard chest beneath his shirt and the sensation from touching . . . _other things_.

    _Take a deep breath, Evie._ It's just teenage hormones. _That's all._

     Mom said hormones could lead a girl down a bad path. Mel said they were like a compass, ". . . telling you which direction to shake your hot ass."

    I shrugged.  _Who knew?_

    _Definitely_ not me.

    Jackson'd been reading with his wind-up flashlight. As soon as the door had creaked open, he'd slammed the book shut.

    When I'd leaned around, eyeing the cover, he'd shoved the tome behind his pack along with a large stack he seemed just as keen for me _not_ to see.

    _Now_ , he jumped to his feet all formal-like. He was searching my face, his expression wary.  I wished for the thousandth time I could talk to Mel.

    She'd know what I should say--or at least she'd make something up.

_God_ , I missed that girl like an ache.

    While washing my hair in sub-zero water, I'd debated my options.

    _One_ : I could explain how I felt and ask Jackson why he'd gotten mad.

    _Two_ : I could pretend our _Thrall in the Hall_ never happened.

    _Three_ : I could tackle him right here and now and have my wicked way.

    Deciding I'd had enough excitement for one day-- _I'll take Avoidance for two hundred, Alex--_ I settled on option two.

    I adjusted my pack.  "A _bonne_ spot?" 

    Handing over the gun, I reached for the flashlight.  "Lead the way."

    Jackson slung the bow over his shoulder and carried the shotgun, leaving his bag and the books on the floor.

    Gripping my elbow, he squired me from _Our Hall,_ ignoring my blatant rubber-necking toward his book titles.

    Just as I began winding the flashlight, he ducked back around the corner, returning with an outstretched hand.

    "Here, _peekôn_. It ain't fried spot, but we make do, _yea?"_

    My heart softened when he handed me two Slim Jim's.

    _God_ , I _hated_ Slim Jim's.

    I put on a happy face. "Thank you, Jackson."

    I took the vile meat sticks, brushing my hand over his. "This was what I wanted all along."

    In the dim light I saw his sad half-smile and my heart squeezed a little bit tighter.

    When he walked ahead of me, I tried to hand one back.

    "Here, we can share."

    He waved it away like he was offended. “Take 'em, _cher_. You doan need to miss meals."

    "Oh, and _you_ do?"

    Switching gears, he turned to me and leered, " _Hell, Evie,_ told you already . . . I like where you’re goan with this," motioning to my chest. "Still want to see where you end up."

    My face flamed.

    Crossing my arms, I pursed my lips trying to think of a cutting response.

    Why did he always ruin it whenever he did something sweet?

    I opened my mouth to singe him to ash . . . but then I hesitated, remembering the baby stroller incident from earlier in the day--the fight he'd tried to start by mentioning my bra and panties.

    Was he trying to distract me now? Because he _got caught_ being nice?

    In Jackson's world, I imagined _nice_ was another way to say _weak_. Which meant _maybe_ he wanted to be sweet to me, but didn't trust me enough to let his guard down. At least, _not yet_.

    When I lowered my arms and smiled up at him, his brows drew together, expression puzzled. Was he . . . _disappointed?_

    I smiled even wider.

    He _wasn't_ flirting to embarrass me! Well, not _just_ to embarrass me.

    I remembered Gaston's question back in History class. _Did_ Jackson like any of the girls at Sterling?

    He'd answered, _"Une fille, peut etre."_ One girl, maybe _._

    Part of me wanted to muse on _which_ girl he might've liked. Another part of me--the bigger part--said I knew which girl--that I'd known even then. So, why was I continuing to pretend I didn't?

    As we made our way through the lobby's wreckage, I took the opportunity to look at Jackson. _Really_ look.

    He moved desks and bookcases from our path with seemingly little or no effort. I watched the way his muscles flexed and I sighed. Was forearm fetish an actual thing?

    His ever-present bow was slung across his strong back. From what I'd seen, I wondered if he ever missed. Fresh white medical tape covered the fingers of his right hand. On his left hand, white scars and newer pink ones criss-crossed his knuckles, stark against his tan skin.

    So much pain. So much responsibility.

    Was he angry because he couldn't catch fresh fish for dinner? For a boy who grew up on the Bayou, a land teeming with life, the Flash had robbed him not only of his home, his family and friends; but also fishing, hunting, providing for himself and others--things he'd clearly been skilled in doing.

    Maybe he missed the communion with wildlife the way I missed the oaks and the cane? He'd touched the clouds in my wall mural with such reverence. Did he grieve for the rain that'd kept the Basin alive?

     With a sigh, I considered the possibility that maybe I wasn't the only one _doing the best I could._

     As we meandered through the stacks of books and ash, I decided I'd make it my mission to help him forget his worries, even if only for a short while.

    "So, did you book us the _honeymoon suite_ for tonight?

    Was that a hitch in Jackson's step?

    No response.

    "I call right side of the bed," I said excitedly.

    _Definitely_ a stutter in his gait that time.

    When we'd made it through the worst of the lobby, he motioned toward the metal tree."Floor's clean up dare. Winds cleared off the glass. It's small, _for true_ ; but even if a Bagger gets in, it woan make it up doze stairs."

    He sounded apologetic.

    Was he kidding _?_ It was like he'd pointed to a castle in the clouds. I was giddy, barely able to stifle the urge to jump up and down and clap.

    "It's perfect." I beamed. "And we can see the street from the window, right?"

    In a weary tone, he said, "You doan go near dat window, _non_. And keep dat light down, you. Some crazy-ass _couillones" --_ idiots _\-- "_ wait for dark to make a move."

    Grinning from ear-to-ear, I nodded, only half-listening. I couldn't wait to climb my tree.

    Hoping to take Jackson's mind off _crazy-ass couillones,_ I caught up to him and teased, "You carried my bag today. Does that mean you like me, Jackson? _Hmm?_ Isn't that what a _beau_ does?"

    His shoulders stiffened, his body gone rigid. With narrowed eyes he turned to me and grated, "Or maybe I help you along because you'd slow me down otherwise."

    " _Oh_." I drew my head back, trying to hide my hurt, his words like a bucket of cold water in the face.

    He must've seen my smile falter because he bit out a curse, before barking, " _Evie_ , upstairs. _Now_."

    After a stunned moment, I scowled, trudging up the twisting staircase, mouthing the word " ** _mean"_** at his back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The loft was . . . . _cozy_.

    The stairs opened to the west toward the jagged stained glass. I knew this because mosaic tile with arrows and compass letters ringed the floor of the staircase shaft. There were no books or furniture, just a pair of dusty fake palm trees in square stone planters on the north and south sides.

    A slight breeze stirred through the broken window. I'd grown so accustomed to a charred world I didn't notice the smell most of the time. Since nearly everything else in Pearl had burned to the ground, there was no rotting food odor like we'd experienced in most other towns. And now that I really thought about it, we hadn't seen _any_ corpses. Though there had been a noteworthy number of burned out vehicles lining the streets. _Hmmm . . ._

    Jackson'd said any Army or militia scouts would've thought Pearl too small and too burned to be worth their time.

    Minus the stench of bag men, rotting food and corpses, the air smelled almost clean.  
I took a deep breath, trying to shake off my earlier pique.

    Jackson laid the gun down, then strode to the window--the one he'd just told me _not_ to go near--staring out into the quiet night. He took several long pulls from his flask, then slipped it into his boot. Since the incident in _Our Hall,_ he'd been hitting the whiskey-- _hard_.

    I flushed scarlet once again, replaying the memory-- _in detail_.

    As if he'd read my mind, Jackson gripped the handrail until his scarred knuckles went white.

    For long moments he held himself perfectly still-- _statue-like--_ asilhouette of a confusing man and his bow. Finally, he exhaled long and low.

    Was he back to happy? Strike that. Back to _less pissed?_

    I opened my mouth to apologize, then snapped it shut just as quickly.

    Why was I apologizing? I hadn't done anything wrong. And I was still mad at what he'd said about carrying my bag.  _So I wouldn't slow him down! What an ass!  
_

    With his back to me he sneered, _"Roses."_

    I could hear the disgust in his voice.

  _"Excuse me?"_ My words dripped venom.

    I had no idea what he meant, but it reminded me of what he'd said only hours earlier.

   "Want you even _when_ you smell like roses."

    _Apparently_ , his mood had swung the opposite direction . . . And I hadn't even figured out the topic--which only pissed me off further.

    Without turning, he grated, "Guess this ain't what you're used to, _Princess_. No soft sheets or fancy tea parties."

    _Tea parties?_

    What the hell did _that_ mean?

    Was he angling for a fight? _Whatever_.

    I clamped my lips shut. I would not rise to the bait.

    When I didn't respond, he was quiet.

    He tipped the flask three more times before casting about again.

    "Dis place's almost big as Sterling's library." Was he slurring? "You oughta feel right at home, _yea?"_

    _Aaand_.... he sinks the hook.

    My tone held razors. "I'm surprised a _Basin_ boy knows what a library looks like."

    Jackson whipped around, his eyes _ablaze_ with fury. He beared his teeth and growled, actually _growled_ at me.

   "What you say to me, _girl?"_   _Girl_ sounded like _gull_.

    I glared a hole _through_ him, repeating my words, enunciating _every_ syllable.

    Crossing my arms, I raised my chin and stared directly down my nose. "If you're going to keep insulting me for where _I'm_ from, then I'll do the same. Let's just see how _you_ like it."

    Gritting his teeth, he stalked toward me, tendons in his neck stretched tight.

    I would _not_ back down. _No way!_

    Even if he did like me, even if I _might've_ liked him, I'd had enough of this rude boy and his rude comments. _E-nough!_

    He stopped an inch from my face, his towering frame looming over me, practically vibrating with menace.

    "You keep distracting me, and we're goan to be dead, _for true."_

    A current of rage buzzed from his skin, stoking my own temper higher and higher.

    "What the hell are you even talking about? _God!_ You drive me crazy! And what do tea parties have to do with anything?"

   "Means I woan let a _gull_ like _you_ be the reason I lose my head!" _  
_

   His accent was as thick as I'd ever heard it. When he spoke again, he punctuated his words by stabbing a forefinger against his chest repeatedly.

   "Jack Deveaux doan stand in the street like bagger bait when the sun goes down just so he can hold some _fille's_ hand!"

    His eyes were darting wildly now, his fists opening and closing like he wanted to hit something. The loft had no solid walls, only the metal bars around the staircase. He seemed on the verge of exploding without an outlet for his rage.

    "A _girl_ like me?" I shrieked.

    Instead of backing away like a smart _gull_ , _I_ drilled a finger into his chest, my voice gone low with bridled fury.

    "You know _nothing_ about a girl like me!"

_Wait . . ._ _just so he could hold some fille's hand?_

    His eyes flashed with victory.

    _This_ was what he'd wanted all along? _Me_ \--completely unhinged? But why _?_

    " _Mais, yea . . ._ I know _every-ting_ about a _fille_ like you, knowall about yourkind. You can't protect yourself. _Hell_ , you wave at every _coo-yôn_  we see. Might as well give 'em an invite to rob us or worse."

    His gaze darted back to the steel bars surrounding the staircase. I knew he was still searching for some place to plant his fist.

    _You'd never hurt me,_ I thought.

    My inner voice chose that moment to contribute-- _It'll hurt when he leaves_.

    _Shut up_ , _you_ \--I told my meddlesome inner harpie. 

    The fact that the _idea_ of his leaving bothered me at all made me even madder!

    "You're _gâtée_ , Evangeline." Spoiled.

    He spat the word again, " _Gâtée!"_

    I'd never been so incensed in all my life! My claws started to tingle; I needed to reign this in _now_.

    Voice gone icy cold, I bit out, "If I'm _gâtée_ , then you're _farouche."_ Feral _._

    Jackson bared his teeth, looming over me again. He seemed to realize he was proving my point and stopped short, twisting his lips into a scowl. Then he just stood there, boiling in a cauldron of rage.

    At length, he spun away as if _he_ was the one disgusted.

    Heading toward the stairs, he muttered a Cajun word I didn't recognize. I'd have bet the farm it was _not_ complimentary.

    He turned back, tone dripping with scorn, grating, "You're goan to be safe up here, but doan you go near _dat_." He pointed accusingly at the broken window.

    "No baggers doan mean no people. Again, might be a few in town, so keep quiet, _you_."

    Adjusting his bow, he walked back toward me, reaching for the flashlight.

    "Be bag soon, _me_. No noise. _Compris_?"

    He wouldn't make eye-contact during this litany of barked commands. He was talking _at me_ and _that_ simply would not do.

    When I still hadn't responded--my own temper gone supernova--he finally looked at me, raising an eyebrow in question.

_~Round two~_

     With a look that should've scorched his eyebrows off, I showed him the back of my closed hand, then began counting off, raising my fingers one at a time. Might've started with the middle one. Didn't care.

     In my best pissed off drunken Cajun, I bit out,

_"One_ : I'm goan to be safe here, _yea?"_

     Jackson narrowed his eyes at the hand gesture. His jaw so tightly clenched, I was surprised I didn't hear teeth cracking.

_"Two_ : Stay away from _dat_ window."

    I stabbed my victory sign toward Jackson, then the window. Probably meant nothing in silent commando speak, but-- _what the hell_ \--I was in the zone _._ I went with it.

  _"Tree_ : Stay quiet, _me."_

    "Four: You're goan to be bag soon."

    My voice shook with fury.

    "And _Five_ , just in case I forget number _tree_ : Once again, be quiet, _me."_

    By the last I'd been _seething_ , as eager for him to go as he'd been to leave.

    He stared at me with an unreadable expression.

    _Stand off._

    Then he . . . . _smiled_ at me.

_Smiled_?

  _Ah, God!_ I wanted to _strangle_ him!

_Even worse?_

    It wasn't a smirk; It was a real smile!

    As he walked away, he turned back and . . .  _winked_ before bounding down the stairs.

_What. The. Hell?_

    I wanted to scream-- _nearly did_ \--before remembering rule number three . . . _and five_.

    Maybe I could sneak downstairs and find a book on personality disorders?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The voices hit me like Mel in the livestock tent of the Louisiana State Fair.

    The longer Jackson and I were together, the more intense they were when we parted, like there was a quota on my misery they were desperate to fill.

     I sank to the floor and crossed my legs, gripping the sides of my bent head like we'd been taught in school during tornado drills.

     I flinched and gripped my arms, my mind making the unwelcome connections between twisters and bovines and pain. Pulling at my own hair now, I broadcast my mental rant to the world in general.

     -- _Damn you, voices! Damn you, storms and earthquakes! Go to hell, Death and Ogen! Damn, the Flash! Screw you Army Rapists! And for the record . . . I. HATE. PUNCH-COW!_

     The final _COW_ reverberated through my mind as the building quaked like a final exclamation point. Amazingly, the voices went-- _not just quiet_ \--but, _silent_.

     The calm only lasted about ten seconds, but it was a _great_ ten seconds nonetheless.

 


	6. 6

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'd organized my bug out bag for the third time when I remembered the children's section down below. I knew I'd seen beanbags peeking out from the rubble.

    Staring at the hard tiles beneath my feet, I nibbled my bottom lip. It was full dark and I didn't have a flashlight, but the moon was full and especially bright.

    Leaning over the railing, I searched for any sign of Jackson.

    Nothing.

    Staring back at the hard tile, I cringed to realize I'd been counting on my fingers, remembering the rules. As I confirmed  _stay in the loft_  wasn't one of them, I had the sudden urge to give myself a high-five.

    Further reasoning led me to conclude, rule number one-- _You're goan to be safe here_ \--was more of a statement than a rule . . . one I could definitely argue my way around.

    Decision made, I crept quiet as a mouse down the stairs.

    An hour and a ridiculous amount of stealth later, I'd salvaged two giant beanbags from the library's lower wreckage.

    I'd also stumbled across a book I knew Jackson would like. Tucking it into my backpack, I'd decided to save it until he stopped being so mean. Absently, I wondered if he'd ever see the book.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Out of breath and covered in dust, I stood back, put my fists on my hips and surveyed my work.  My shadow looked so much like Peter Pan, I raised my arm, offering a merry little wave. When the silhouette waved back, I sported a goofy grin, then quickly dropped my hand, looking around behind me, feeling silly.

    One of the huge stone planters was the new focal point of the loft's eastern section. A stapler and torn out book pages had produced the myriad paper chains draped between the tree trunk and outer railing. Post-Flash entertainment wasn't exactly what you'd call--well . . .  _flashy_.

    As my gaze traveled along the colorful links, I was reminded of pictures I'd seen of a Maypole. The second I made the mental connection, an inexplicable joy washed over me.

    Lining the wide lip of the stone planter were my treasures--positioned for easy access. To each side, I'd carefully arranged the beanbags. In retrospect, my determination to perfectly display each bag's vinyl graphic was probably cause for concern.

    Intending to adjust the angle of the fake palm, I took a step forward, only to stop short and roll my eyes, struck by the dawning realization I'd been happily  _decorating_ our suite for hours. For some reason, I didn't think Jackson would be overly impressed.

    At least he'd know I'd listened about the position of the beds.

    Backed against the loft's inner railing, the bean bags sat far from the broken window, with Jack's being closest to the stairway opening. 

    Early on he'd explained, "Where I come from, cher, a man's goan to put himself between the closest threat and whatever he means to protect."

    I'd barely stifled a sigh, freaking willed my lashes not to flutter.

    I wondered which Jackson would return to me. Surly or sweet?

    When my eyes landed on the graphic of my royal blue bean bag--I'd given Jackson what I considered the more manly red--I shook my head with pity.

    Poor Snow White had not faired well since the Flash.

    Her face was cracked and peeling, the upper third flaked away until only one eye remained     . . . _Cyclops Snow White._

    Still . . . her ruby red lips managed an optimistic smile, her singular gaze doting, as she stared lovingly toward her finger--more specifically--the headless bluebird using it as a perch.

    Though he lacked a beak--and a head--white musical notes swirled above the decapitated whistler. The sight provoked several feelings at once: amusement, an odd sort of hopefulness, but mostly . . . it just creeped me out.

    A memory of another bird arose.

    Mom and I had been rocking on Haven's front porch on a hot, lazy afternoon shelling pole beans and late summer peas into huge metal bowls. It must've been just after Gran left-- _was taken away_ \--because the shaded side porch had always been our shelling spot, mine and Gran's.

    Mom was sitting on a poppy red double glider. She'd looked so sad, barely cracking a smile when I'd stuck green beans up my nose, asking if she had a tissue.

    I remembered Spanish moss stirring in the slight breeze; the smell of honeysuckle; the sounds of whirring ceiling fans, wind chimes, the distant whinnies from the barn. 

    We'd both paused in our work to listen to a songbird. It'd seemed especially close, especially clear. Something about the melody had reminded me of Gran's humming when she'd played with her beloved tarot cards. I couldn't remember what Mom'd said exactly, but it was something like--the singer may be gone, but the song still remains. 

    I'd smiled, thinking she meant Gran was somehow still with us, but then I'd looked up and seen her face. It'd been an expression I hadn't known how to read, but I'd instinctively looked away, sure Mom hadn't meant for me to see it. She'd seemed angry, or maybe even . . . scared?    

    As usual, my recollections made little sense. Sometimes I wasn't sure what was a true memory, a dream, or just my imagination.

    I sighed and sank down into my best bed since the shrimp boat nine days earlier.

    Laying the back of my wrist against my forehead, I stared through the ceiling dome into the night sky. The dust and haze hung heavy. The Flash had dumped so much ash into the atmosphere, it was as if a gauzy veil separated the Earth from the heavens. Sometimes, I thought it was gradually getting better. But that was likely just wishful thinking. I gazed toward the blurred ball of the moon, suddenly overwhelmed with sadness. If there was a man in the moon, I couldn't see him any better than he could see me.

    I scanned the sky once more, searching for a familiar point of light. The heavy weight on my chest was back. I couldn't wish on a star, could only wish to see a star.  
    Was Gran staring up at the same sky? Was she thinking of me? Was Matthew?

    I had the sudden image of my Mother gazing down a fuzzy moonbeam.

    What if she couldn't see me? This was the saddest thought of all.

    The universe grew even more blurred through my tears. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   "Jack Deveaux doan bed down with magic rats, non."

    I jumped, cracking my skull against the concrete planter.

    Darkness seeped into the edges of my vision, tiny black stars swimming from the center.

    Squeezing my eyes shut, I walked my fingertips gingerly over my scalp, grimacing to find a growing goose egg just behind the hairline of my left temple.

    When I opened my eyes, Jackson came into focus at the top of the stairs. My lips parted, breath leaving in a short puff.

    He must've been _very_ secure in our overnight I dumbly reasoned, because he was striding toward me, barefoot and . . . _Oh, God . . ._

    Breathe, Evie.

    Just.

    Breathe.

    His hair was damp, his face clean--smooth shaven. He wore a faded blue long sleeve button down cuffed to his elbows . . . and he hadn't used a _single_ button.

    Time slowed down, gifting me with the finest details. With each step closer, the edges of his shirt swung wide, revealing tantalizing glimpses of hard muscle.

    His skin was tan and smooth and . . . perfect. My fingers itched to touch him again.

    His black onyx rosary glinted, swaying back and forth with each of his long strides.  
I marveled at his broad shoulders, the way they tapered down to the worn jeans hanging low on his narrow hips.

    Moonlight played over the hard planes of his face and chest. His lips were moving.  
He was asking me something. _Maybe_?

    As I reveled in this unexpected windfall of bare skin and worn denim, I absently registered the top button of his jeans . . . the _open_ top button.

    Sucking in a breath, I bit my lower lip and the embarrassing words on the edge of tumbling out.

    I blinked and suddenly, he was on his knees in front of me. The waistband of his jeans tugged down another inch, revealing the vee of cut muscles below his abs.

    They angled down from his hips, drawing my attention lower and lower. My hands worked faster than my brain. My fingertips skimmed across his stomach muscles, up to his chest and back. His skin was so hot. I brushed over the trail of dark hair disappearing beyond the open button.

    I swallowed.

    He was waiting for something. Oh, God. A response from me? I felt like I'd smoked a pack of cotton balls. Can't form words . . .

    "EVANGELINE!"

    I jumped, jerking my hands away. My gaze snapped up to meet Jackson's. He was clutching my shoulders, searching my face, his expression filled with concern.

    _"I-I'm here_?" I croaked. Why was that a question?

    I inwardly rolled my eyes.

    Jackson's grip on my shoulders eased. He was still searching my face, rubbing his hands up and down the length of my arms. Moving one palm to my nape, he slid the other hand around to my lower back, gently pulling me closer, cradling me against his solid chest.

His voice was a soft, stroking rasp.

    "Evie . . . _bébé_ , you hurt? You had a vision?"

    A vision? Yes, it was a vision alright.

    I shook my head against his shoulder, embarrassed. While I'd been ogling him, he'd been worried about me.

    Careful not to meet his gaze, I whispered,

    "I-I hit my head and I think I blacked out . . . " My voice trailed off.

    " . . _. or something_."

    He squeezed me tighter, burying his face in my hair, the bend of my neck, breathing me in. Then, his body went perfectly still.

    Slowly, he leaned away, holding me at arm's length, sitting back on his heels to study me.

    He cupped my cheeks in his callused palms, turning my face up to his, searching my eyes.

    I knew I was bright red. My face felt sunburned.

    At first he seemed confused, then . . . _surprised_?

    Lips curling into a smile, he pulled me back to his chest. I thought he murmured something about honeysuckle before rasping against my ear, "Ahhhh, Evie. Ma douce fille." My sweet girl. "I'm likin' you too."

    He let me go, then leaned back against the blue bean bag, opening his arms wide.

   "Come here, bébé. Just want to hold you."

    When I closed the distance between us, he pulled my back against his chest. I laid my head on his curled bicep, melting in beside him.

    With a sigh of contentment, I breathed him in. He smelled like the woods, wild and perfect.

    Wrapping his other arm around me, he banded it protectively across my chest. His grasp on my shoulder felt possessive.

    Had I ever felt so warm, so safe?

    We lay there like quotation marks in the still night, Jackson curled around me from nod to knees. I'd never fought with anyone the way I had with Jackson. No one had ever made me so angry. But I'd never felt this close to anyone else either. This connected. We just seemed to fit.

    With that thought, I absently trailed my fingers over the scar on his forearm up to his battered knuckles. So much pain.

    The first time I'd seen those scars, I'd been frightened. The idea of such violence had scared me. Now I knew he'd suffered those wounds protecting his mother. Instead of being frightened, _I_ felt protected.

    In the world post-Flash, I'd begun to realize only the fighters survived.  
I also knew, without a doubt, I was wrapped up tight by one of the fiercest . . . one currently pressing a tender kiss against my hair.

    Was there more between me and Jackson than his promise to help me find my Gran? Could there be a future for us after we found her?

    And was I crazy to hope for such a thing?

    Mom's words echoed in my mind.

    -- _No one can stop you from wishing, honey. No one. It doesn't matter if anyone else understands or agrees with your dreams, not even me._

    With a whispered, "I love you, mama; I miss you," I allowed a single tear to fall.

 

 

 

   

    The last thing I saw before my lids slid shut was the red beanbag.

    Mickey Mouse was dressed in a red wizard's robe. He wore a long blue pointed cap and waved a starry wand. I smiled against Jackson's arm . . . _Magic Rats._

    "Good night, Jackson." I covered his hand with mine and squeezed. "It's great to be alive."

    He pressed another kiss against my hair and held me tighter.

    "Get some rest, ange."

    With that, I drifted into the best sleep I'd had in ages.

 


	7. 7

 

 

 

 

 

 

The sun was high and I was curled catlike in the center of an oversized royal blue beanbag.

    I peeled my face from the vinyl, absently rubbing the stitching shaped brand running the length of my cheek.

    I gazed through the shattered ceiling dome. The sky was a brilliant blue. I raised my arms and stretched down to my toes. Had I _ever_ slept so well?

    Where was Jackson? I scanned the loft. His backpack was gone, along with the gun and cross-bow. I had a moment's panic before I heard movement downstairs.

    Dressing quickly, I organized my bag once more, making a mental list of things to source on the road today . . . food, food and-- _oh, yea . . . food."_

    My stomach growled as if to highlight the point.

    The only items left to pack were the six currently lined atop the stone planter. I unraveled the roll pouch and one by one, carefully placed each memory inside the velvet.

    First, the small framed photo of me and Mom and Gran taken one Easter at Haven.

    Next, a piece of blue sea glass Jackson'd found near the shrimp boat our first night out together. _"Color of your eyes,"_ he'd said.

    The following two items were little surprises from the backpack I'd hastily grabbed as we'd fled my home.

    Ticket stubs from a movie I'd seen with Brand had been tucked inside an inner pocket, along with a  _Colorado_ key chain from a ski trip with Mel.

    I reverently placed both items into their individual storage slots. 

    My next keepsake was a metal car part I'd found in the Comet's garage. I knew it was an emblem from a Ford Mustang _,_ butI'd kept it because it'd reminded me of Allegra.

    I smiled as I stroked the piece. It'd been many years since Allegra had moved fast enough for her mane and tail to flow behind her like that. Jackson and I had been forced to release her, leaving her to fend for herself as the Army of the Southeast descended on the farm. I had no idea what'd become of her, consoling myself with the fact she'd had a good, long life. At least it'd been good up until the Flash. _Put it away, Evie._ With that thought, I skimmed a finger along the horse's tail before tucking it safely into the velvet.

    The last item in the line-up was something Jackson'd found the morning after we'd lost the car.

    As we'd trudged through the Bagman swamp, he'd crouched low to study something in the mud. Pulling the buck knife from his back pocket, he'd carefully excavated the object, pulling it free with an expression of awe.

    After using his bandanna to wipe away the mud, he'd held it toward me in his flattened palm.

    It'd looked like a pointy rock.

    In a hushed tone, he'd said, " _Peekon_ , you know what this is?"

    " _Um_ . . . no. _Should I?"_

    Voice filled with wonder, he'd said, "It's a _Clovis_."

     I'd stared at the muddy stone, nibbling my lip, trying to imagine what an appropriate response might sound like.

    " _What_ , like an arrow head?"

    I'd poked at it intelligently with my finger.

    " _Non_ , natives made deze _before_ arrows."

    _Before arrows?_

    I'd peered closer.

    "You want to hold it?" 

    I'd nodded.

    Walking over to a burnt out log, he'd motioned for me to sit, acting as if he'd been handing over a baby chick.

    " _Here . . ._ use two hands." 

    The heavy weight of the rock had surprised me. It was about three inches long with white flecks speckled through larger patches of orange and green. The white bits'd reminded me of snowflakes.

    " _Hey_! It's shaped like a leaf." I'd said with delight.

    He'd smiled at me approvingly, pointing out the widest part in the middle.

    " _Ouias_ , dat leaf shape's called _lanceolate_. Dat's how I knew it was Clovis."

    I turned it over in my hand, tracing my fingers over the rough edges.

    "If it's not an arrowhead, what is it?"

    "You see dis curve on the bottom." He'd leaned his head close to mine, running his thumb along the stone's edge. "Hunters would bind to the haft right dare."

    At my blank look he'd explained, " _Haft_ is like a handle. Dis was a spear point . . ."

    He'd paused, seeming thoughtful, ". . . or maybe a knife blade."

    Letting _that_ knowledge sink in, I'd smoothed my fingers along the crescent shaped arc of the _haft_.

    "The snowflakes are pretty."

    He'd smiled again.

    "You got a good eye, _peekon_. Dat's what you call Tallahatta quartzite."

  _"Talla-whatta?"_

    His tone indulgent, he'd said," _Snowflakes_ means it's rare."

    Jackson'd seemed younger, his eyes dancing as he'd stared into my palm, murmuring,  "Always wanted to find one, _me_."

    He'd taken the blade from my hand, holding it at different angles, running his fingers over the different grooves as if committing them to memory.

   "You found others?"

    " _Mais yea,_ had a whole coffee can full of arrowheads and smaller points . . . "

    He'd stared out across the blackened field, his tone turning wistful.

    "Never found a Clovis though . . . _always lookin', me_. Every chance I got . . . _always searchin'."_

    I'd smiled, picturing a black-haired boy digging for treasure in the woods. Had he hunted alone? And who'd taught him what to hunt for?

    He'd slapped a hand on one knee and straightened.

    "Time to go, _cher_."

    Mom had loved to watch _Antiques Roadshow._ It'd seemed like Jackson was holding back the age of his piece until after the last commercial break.

    "How old is it? What's it worth . . . " I'd corrected myself. "What would it have been worth, you know . . . _before_?"

     Stubbling again, he'd seemed to seriously consider the question.

    "Well, they quit makin' Clovis about ten thousand years ago. No good for trade. Can't eat it, _non_. It's inefficient as a weapon.  _So_ . . . guess it ain't worth nothin'."

    With that, he'd pinched one end of the stone and flicked his wrist, sending the blade spinning like a wobbly frisbee. I'd stared in disbelief as it sailed a long, wide arc before landing with a wet _plop_ back into the mud.

_Ten thousand years old!_

    Mouth gaping--dumbfounded--I'd stared at his empty hands in disbelief.

  _"Wh-Why would you throw it away?"_

    My eyes had gone wide, voice scaling several octaves.

    " _WHY_ would you throw it away? You said you'd always wanted to find one!"

    He'd shrugged, his expression seeming confused.

    "And I just did. Ain't like a got a coffee tin in my bag . . . . _What?"_

    At my incredulous look, he'd raised his palms and eyebrows in bafflement.

    I still hadn't been able to blink, just stood there, opening and closing my mouth like a fish out of water.

    I couldn't wrap my mind around the age of the piece, couldn't picture how it'd been used exactly, but I _could_ imagine a long ago hunter holding out a leaf, working the stone into the exact same shape.

    As I'd held the _leaf blade,_  I'd imagined it coming to life for me . . . a tree bolting from the earth, offering up a branch as a spear . . . vines racing to _bind the haft . . ._

    The idea that Jackson'd felt connected to the blade had made _me_ feel connected to _him_. This was the thought I'd purposely avoided examining ever since.

    In truth, I'd wanted something solid, something special to him, a thing I could hold tight to help me remember . . .  _after he left me._

    I knew he'd seen me reach back into the mud to rescue the _lanceolate_ , but he hadn't commented then, or any of the nights since when I'd laid the rough blade in line with my other keepsakes.

   I carefully wrapped the Clovis back inside the velvet.

   On my way out, I paused at the top of the staircase, letting my eyes roam over the loft: the jagged stained glass, the glinting canopy of metal leaves overhead, the beanbags, even the infernal stone planter. Closing my eyes, I committing them all to memory.

   With a sigh and a Mona Lisa smile, I said goodbye.

   "So long, _Snow_." _Hang in there._ " _Someday_ your prince will come." 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I followed the sound of ripping paper back to _Our Hall._

    When I rounded the corner, my steps faltered.

    Last night, this space had held a water fountain, a step stool and a wooden table. Today, it was transformed.

    Towers of perfectly stacked books lined the hallway, their spines hidden against the wall. Had Jackson done _all_ of this? Or had we been invaded by a hoard of alphabetizing elves? Maybe it'd been Snow's men? Was there an O.C.D. dwarf? Maybe I'd summoned him with my obsessive beanbag straightening?

    Paper ripped once again, drawing my attention to the high back of a green leather rolling chair centered at the wooden table, also piled high with books.

    I glimpsed Jackson's arm as he laid the torn-out page on the middle of three stacks.  
My heartbeat quickened. Apparently _forearm fetish_ was a real thing.

    I crept quietly, hoping to catch a peek of at least one title.

    "You got lucky last night."

    I froze at Jackson's disembodied voice.

    I sputtered in response. _"P-Pardon?_

    "With the bed bags."

    _Beanbags_? "You mean beanbags?"

    "Dat's what I said. You got lucky with dat blue one."

     Without turning, he raised an arm out to the side, holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart.

     "Dat close to pullin' a shelf over on your head, _for true."_

     He rolled to one end of the table, replaced one book, then grabbed another.

_"Wait . ._. " I put my hands on my hips. "You saw me? Why didn't you say anything? Where were you?"

    "Close enough to catch a falling shelf."

    At that, he spun the chair around, his big hands gripping the arm rests. He looked like a King on a throne.

    An impulse seized me.

    Maybe it was the restful night's sleep. Maybe I wanted to fluster him the way he always flustered me. Or maybe I was just . . . _happy?_

    I ran the ten feet between us, _leaping_ into his lap.

    His expression was one of surprise before he caught me in his arms. The chair spun with the force of my landing, twirling a complete circle before Jackson regained his footing.

    With my arms looped around his neck , I threw my head back and laughed.

    When I chanced a peek up at him, he was looking at me with . . . . _wonder_.

    Without warning, he squeezed me tight, spinning the chair like a hurricane.

    After the second rotation, I was still laughing, but getting dizzy.

    " _Stop! Stop!_ Simon says _STOP!"_

    When I finally caught my breath, we were grinning at each other like _fous_. Lunatics.

    I was draped sideways across his lap, one arm still slung around his neck, the other palm pressed over his heart. He had an arm around my shoulders and a possessive grip on my knee.

    "S-sorry. I don't know what came over me."

    I picked imaginary lint from his shirt.

    When I moved to stand up, Jackson held me tight, his expression suddenly fierce. "Doan you be sorry, _non_."

    There was a heavy pause as I waited for him to say more, but then he stood, steadying me on my feet.

    "Goan to check the front. We need to talk after your _ab-lutions."_

    I blinked.

    "My _ab-whatta?"_

    Reaching behind me, he producing a Jane Austen Daily Desk Calendarshowing _May 1._

    He smiled.  "Happy May Day, _cher_."

    Waving a level palm, he announced, "It's _'The Word of the Day,"_ his bearing seemingly . . . _proud?_

    I drew my brows, baffled. He looked like he was advertising toothpaste.

    I peered closer at the page.

    Sure enough, it read, _"The Word of the Day"_ and in bold letters beneath: " ** _ABLUTION_** : _The act of washing oneself (often used for humorously formal effect)."_

    Alrighty, then.

    Working to hide how much this entire exchange had weirded me out, I said, " _Uh_ . . . good to know."

    He smiled and chucked me under the chin. _My_ Jackson had never been the chucking type. 

    Eyeing his retreating back, I listened closely, surprised when I didn't hear theme music from _The Twilight Zone._

    Had I woken in some kind of parallel universe?

    At the end of the hall, he stopped.

    I'd just turned my attention to his perfectly stacked books. My expression must've been one of undisguised lust.

    " _Evangeline . . . "_

    His deep voice echoed down the hallway. "Doze books are _my_ research. Hands to yourself, _s'il vous plait."_ If you please _._

    I'd only been waiting for him to move out of earshot so I could dive head first into the mysterious waters of Jackson Deveaux's mind.

    Still staring at the books, I sighed and bit my lip.

    He must've seen the longing in my gaze, because I soon heard boots pounding menacingly back in my direction.

    The familiar sound of Jackson's irritation assured me I was firmly in _this_ universe.

     I puffed my cheeks, then blew out a long, exasperated breath.

     We'd made it-- _what_?--almost twelve hours without a fight?

     Baby steps, Evie . . . _baby_   _steps._

    Jackson halted a foot away, teetering on the precipice of pissed.

     I imagined him standing at the end of a diving board, bending his knees, testing to see how big he could spring _if_ or _when_ he decided to dive in.

  _"Evangeline . . . "_

     "THESE books are MY research." He pronounced each word with precision. "I would like you to keep your hands to yourself. Are we clear?"

     I put my hands on my hips, cocking my head to one side.

     "Are you being serious? Or are you just messing with me?"

     He bounced with more ambition.

     "Do I need to sit in _THIS_ chair until you're done?"

     Okay, then. _Serious_ it is.

     I crossed my arms. "No, Jackson. I don't need you to sit here during my _ablutions."_

     His lip might've twitched and he was flat-footed on the diving board once more.

     " _C'est bon._ " That's good.

     With a long sigh, I headed off to perform _the act of washing oneself._

 

 

 


	8. 8

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"Dat _Britannee_ fille wields the golden pen, non?"

    At the sound of Jackson's voice, I straightened from the _Special Dads_ bulletin board.

    The way he'd pronounced _Britannee_ reminded me of a photo I'd once seen of a cat dressed as Audrey Hepburn. Just . . . _wrong_ , but perversely fascinating.

    I tossed up a level palm. "I know, _right_? I was thinking the same thing." Well, maybe not that _exactly_.

    By the time he stood at my side, his scent had surrounded me. I closed my eyes, breathing him in with naked pleasure. Was he wearing cologne or something?   _God_ , he smelled  _delicious_!

    Shaking off the pheromone haze, I motioned toward the board.

    "Seriously, What kind of third grader uses words like _loquacious_ or _paterfamilias_?

    Jackson pointed toward Brittannee's essay.

    "You tink dat man made pancakes shaped like Mississippi?"

    He asked this in the same way he might've inquired if I'd bagged big game on my latest hunting safari.

     I shrugged, feeling an unexpected pang. -- _You're all alone, Evie._

     "Maybe it wasn't a perfect Mississippi. You know . . . thought that counts and all . . ." My voice trailed off as I walked away from the board.

    When I glanced up at Jackson's profile, a small voice whispered-- _He's alone now too._

    "I mean, you tink dat girl's pére cooked breakfast every day?"

    He waved broadly. "You tink _all_ deze péres did _all_ deze tings?

    His tone said he didn't believe it at all.

    My reply was unintentionally sharp. "How should I know? Maybe _Brittannee_ made it all up? _Maybe_ she never had a Dad at all?"

    Why was I getting so upset? Why now?

    I'd never known my father, didn't have a single memory.

    Maybe because I'd always had Mom?

    I swallowed.

    And now that she was gone . . . _You're_   _on your own._

    I shushed my inner voice.

    This fatherthing was a hurt I hadn't even known was there.

    I wouldn't look at Jackson, but I could feel his eyes on me. When I finally glanced his way, I saw the moment of recognition, saw the way his hand shot out and his lips parted as his gaze went soft.

    It wasn't a look of pity; that would've only made me mad. It was understanding. It was something unspoken passing between us, something _shared_.

    Glancing down, he drew his brows together, seeming surprised by his outstretched hand. After he'd slowly dropped it to his side, we stood quietly, staring at each other for long moments.

    I'd shown him a piece of my soul and--amazingly--he'd given me a glimpse of his own. We'd each pulled back the curtains of these tiny personal windows, only to reveal mirrors instead.

    Once again, the connection between us surprised me.

    If the Flash had never happened, would I know him as I did now? I wanted to believe obstacles like geography and social standing wouldn't have mattered for long, but-- _to be honest_ \--I wondered if our-- _friendship?--_ could've ever gotten over those hurdles.

     Needing a minute to myself, I turned away, staring past the stacks of books, further out beyond _Our Hall._

     His fingers brushed against my lower back, tentative at first.

    When I didn't bolt, he pressed his palm there, turning me around. Pulling me close, he tucked my head beneath his chin, rubbing a slow circle between my shoulders. It felt like comfort. It felt right.

     When I exhaled, I trembled slightly, still feeling overwhelmed. He must've feared I was on the verge of crying because he pulled out the _big guns_ to stem my tears. Leaning in close to my ear, he teased, "How 'bout I let you see my books? You know you want to."

     Eyes wide, I pulled back to see if he was serious. His smile was playful.

     It'd taken every ounce of my self-control not to peek at just one of Jackson's book titles. I'd made a meal of my bottom lip fretting over _what_ he didn't want me to see and _why_ he didn't want me to see it.

     Why had I been so desperate to know what he was reading?

     I'd had no problem respecting his wishes about the bug-out bag. He'd asked me not to open it; I hadn't. End of story.

     So why was the book thing so different?

     Whatever Jackson hadn't wanted me to see in his bag was just a _thing_ , I reasoned.

     Maybe I thought the books would offer clues about his thoughts? Who he was as a person? What plans he might have for the future?

     Jackson fascinated me. I wanted to know _everything_ about him. I just wanted to know him _better_.

    There was something tickling my brain, something about . . . _my sketchbook? Brand's phone?_

      _Shut up, personal insight_. I don't have time for you right now.

    I jumped when Jackson plunked a wooden chair onto the hard tile beside me. Spinning it around backward, he straddled the seat, folding his forearms across the top in that way only boys seemed to get away with. He waved a hand toward the green leather chair.

    "Have a seat, _cher_. We need to talk."

    Why'd this feel so serious all of a sudden?

    I sidled over to the green chair, keeping my eyes trained on Jackson . . . bracing myself for bad news.

    "What's this about? You're making me nervous."

    His expression intent, he began.

    "I know you're in a hurry to get to your grandmére's _. . ._ I know you are . . . "

    He held his hands up in a _whoa, girl_ gesture when I opened my mouth to argue.

    I had a feeling I knew where this was going. He hadn't been subtle about his opinion of the trip--had all but said it was a dangerous waste of time.

     Where did he think I _could_ go, if _not_ to try and find my Gran?

     I was gripped by sudden panic.

    Was he . . . was he _leaving me_? I put a hand to my throat.

    Jackson noticed the gesture and reached for both my hands, covering them with his own.

    " _Bébé_ . . . " He motioned toward the stacks of books. "Dare's information here. Tings I need to know . . . tings I might never find again."

     He tilted his head, eyeing the stacks. "Can't take 'em on my back, _non_. I got pages from the ones I need most, but I need . . . I need more time."

     He was still holding my hands, his face radiating the importance of his words.

     "A few extra hours here might be the difference between life and death down the line. I swear it, _ma belle._  It might make a difference in our future."

     Was he talking about the future on the way to Gran's or . . .  _our_ future?

     I knew only one thing.

     He wasn't leaving me-- _at least not today_. I wanted to cover his face with kisses.

     Then I went awash in guilt. I'd slept like a baby last night.

     Had Jackson slept at all? Had he been here all night looking for ways to take better care of me, of _us_?

     He must've taken my expression as one of disappointment, because he angrily stood, nearly toppling his chair in the process.

     "Forget it, _Princess_. Forget I said anything."

     Turning his back to me, he said, "We'll go as fast as you can be ready."

     Something inside me just . . . _crumbled_.

     I'd hurt him. I'd disappointed him and I couldn't stand it. Tears pricked my eyes.

     I moved to stand close at his back. His shoulders tensed. I could see his jaw muscle tick as he turned his head to the side.

     " _What_?" He grated, "What you need now?"

     I slipped my arms around his waist, pressing my cheek against his back, squeezing him as tightly as I could.

     He grabbed my hands as if to pry them off, but stilled when I started to speak."

    "We can stay as long as you want. Tell me how to help and I'll help."

    Jackson's body was still rigid, but at least he'd stopped trying to pull my hands away.

    "I felt guilty when I realized you'd probably been up all night while I'd been sound asleep . . . or making _paper chains_." At the thought of how much time I'd spent making decorations-- _impossibly_ \--I managed to feel even _worse_. "I'm sorry if you thought I wouldn't want to stay longer for something so . . .  important. I'm grateful to you . . . gratefulfor everything . . . you have no idea."

     As I'd spoken, he'd relaxed more and more. Finally, he turned and wrapped his arms around me.

  _"Ah, ma bonne fille."_ My good girl.

     He stroked my hair.

     "Doan give me too much credit, _ange_. I was on that bed bag almost as long as you, _for true._ Planned on comin' back down to read last night after my . . . _ab-lutions_."  
I could hear the smile in his voice.

     "But then you let me hold you . . . "

     With my ear against his chest, the rumble of his deep voice buzzed through me. He continued stroking my hair as he spoke.

    "Nothin' on Earth coulda lured me away from layin' next to you. _Nothin_ '. An' for the record, _cher_. . . I _liked_ doze paper tings."

     He was smiling when he turned my face up to his.

     His eyes widened in alarm.

     Tears streamed down my cheeks. I'd been as quiet as I could. I didn't even know why I was crying.

     Regret that I'd hurt him? Relief he wasn't leaving? Grateful we'd found each other at all

     " _Evangeline_ , you got to stop . . . . "

     His eyes were wild with panic.

     " _Bébé_  . . if you doan stop, I got to go, _me_."

     I looked up, _willing_ myself not to cry. The concern etched across his face only made it worse. My chin quivered uncontrollably.

     With a curse, he broke away, walking away . . . _away_ from me.

     " _I'm sorry._ " I whispered.

     He was halfway down the hall when he stopped and turned back.

     "No, _peekon_ . . .   _I'm_ sorry."

     I was surprised he'd even heard me. Then I saw his expression. It was _tortured,_ _wretched_ \--a portrait of complete _misery_ _._

     I thought-- _no_ \--I  _knew_ his apology had _nothing_ to do with our recent conversation. And suddenly,  _what I didn't know_  frightened me. 

 

 

 


End file.
